


Coffee and Crossword Puzzles

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Crossword Puzzles, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Get-Together Fic, Les Misérables Secret Santa 2019, Saturnalia, Slow Burn, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Winter Solstice, Yule, eponine pov, reference to arthurian lore, winter holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21949324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: “Do you happen to know of a 6-letter word for something that provides comfort or consolation?”Combeferre doesn’t look up from the newspaper, but Éponine takes his meaning. “Be ready to leave before lock-up.”Warnings:reference to a pre-fic mugging (no details), attempted armed robbery, casual alcohol consumption
Relationships: Combeferre/Éponine Thénardier
Comments: 60
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MarbledOpalescence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarbledOpalescence/gifts).



> For [badass-sunshine](http://badass-sunshine.tumblr.com)!! Happy holidays! 
> 
> Thanks as always to [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait) for being a wonderful beta-reader and an incredible friend. <3

“You can be a real bitch sometimes, I hope you know.”

Éponine rolls her eyes as she passes through the door that Grantaire, despite his griping, still holds open for her.

Ever the sensitive soul, Jehan looks up from eir work. “Did something happen?”

Before Éponine can respond, Grantaire is cutting her off. “Ép got jumped on her way home from work last night.”

Everyone’s eyes are now on her, and she sighs as she leans back against one of the front tables. “They decided I was more trouble than I was worth.”

“What happened? Are you okay?” 

“Two guys showed up and tried to shake her down, but Ép scared ‘em off,” Grantaire tells Courfeyrac-but-really-everyone. The entire rest of the Junior Social Justice Department are now wringing their hands, the dickhead. “Got a shiner and a busted lip for her troubles, but otherwise she’s good.”

“I’m also right here and able to speak for myself.”

Joly, bless them, fully ignores her wholeass temperament and draws closer, eyeing her busted knuckles. “Did you wash your scrapes and apply antiseptic ointment?”

It’s Joly, so she can’t quite find it in herself to be as standoffish about the enquiry as she’d like. “Soon as I got in.”

They nod. “That’s pretty much all you can do, besides the usual ice packs for swelling and painkillers as needed.”

“It’s not, though!” Grantaire counters, exasperated. “She won’t swap to morning shifts—”

“You have literally seen me in the morning.”

“—my shifts at the bar end after hers—”

“And I notice you aren’t offering to trade shifts or switch jobs.”

“—and she refuses to move!”

“I already told you, I’m not uprooting my fucking life over one—that’s _uno, un,_ singular—attempted mugging.” The muggers hadn’t even gotten anything, and if they had it would have been in the form of a smartphone older than Gavroche, a bus pass, twenty-seven cents in loose change, and a pack of gum. The argument is stale and tired by now. “This is the only time it’s happened in the two years we’ve lived there: it’s statistically average.”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Angelface's arms cross and _dares_ him to correct her.

“What about when Gav and Zelma come to visit?”

If there was ever any merit in her mother’s threat that her face would stick in a particular expression, her eyes would have permanently rolled long ago—probably saving her a lot of effort in the meantime. “In broad daylight? Accompanied? More often than not, _by you?”_

Grantaire’s mouth tightens, a sure sign that she’s made a point that has stuck. “I’m going to start looking at listings again,” he mutters, dropping ungracefully into his seat in the back of the room.

“Have fun with that,” she says, sinking into the one beside him.

Once Taylor Swift's more revolutionarily inclined twin begins talking, the rest of the meeting flies by in a flurry of statistics, action plans, and empty cocoa mugs.

“Reminder that, since many of us will be out of town for the holidays, next week’s meeting is cancelled, and the one after that—”

“—is taking place at Ponty and my place, in the form of a _par-tay!”_ Courfeyrac cheers, an arm thrown around Blondie.

“Yes, that.” For all that her flatmate used to bitch about the leader _(in red)_ and the stick up his ass, Angelface definitely has a soft spot for his friends, and Éponine recognizes the unwitting rise of the corner of his mouth from her own experiences with the whole of the Amis. _The sap._

Once the meeting is officially closed, she takes her time getting her things together: she only gets two days off a week, and she’ll be damned if she’s rushed through them. Her flatmate also likes to take his time socializing after, and it’s much easier to bullshit with Bahorel over boxing and his pack than it is to stress herself out over getting home a little earlier.

This established ritual doesn’t stop her from poking fun at Grantaire when he does finally make his appearance. “Took ya long enough.” Kicking her feet down from the table and adjusting her coats, she stands. “I thought you were working on the fawning-over-Blondie thing.”

“I— _I was not_ —I mean…I am.” He flushes, and as apology she tries not to grin too widely. “I’ll have you know that I was talking with Combeferre.”

Not an altogether unusual occurrence: Combeferre is a bro, and he and Grantaire are both into the same niche nerd shit. “What about?”

“Oh, just.” He shrugs. “Niche nerd shit.”

 _That_ makes Éponine pause at the entryway to the stairwell, raising a discerning eyebrow at him: her flatmate is not a succinct man. Where one word will do, he has always strived to use ten, and a single-sentence explanation has never sufficed when the breakdown of an entire field of study, laced with classical references, might fill the void. 

“A riveting discussion,” he continues with a smirk, “on the morality of investing further funds and interest into deep space when so much of our own Gaia has been abandoned to Abaddon, so called ‘Apollyon’ by the Greeks, _apo-_ meaning ‘away,’ and _óllumi_ ‘to destroy.’ I merely postured that—”

 _That’s more like it._ The ramble continues to the bus and all the way until they are at their stop. Through the walk back to their flat Grantaire doesn’t waver from his digression on what has become a thesis on mythological creatures in the known world, but he definitely walks a little closer to her.

—-

It’s an hour until closing, which according to Éponine is basically closing: there is no reason for anyone to be drinking coffee at 9 at night.

The bells at the front door chime, and Éponine takes a final sip of hazelnut coldbrew before re-hiding her drink. Turning, she expects a pack of rowdy uni students—or worse, entitled wine moms—only to be met with the sight of none other than Combeferre.

She could ask questions, but it’s not really her style, and where Combeferre is concerned it has almost never been necessary

“Medium coffee, black,” he tells her with a smile, sliding a thermos across the counter that she recognizes from meetings.

There might be others who would be offended by the lack of further acknowledgement, but this is what Éponine prefers: if she wanted her work caught up with her personal life, she would have gone to school for social work, or law or medicine like the rest of her non-Grantaire friends.

She tells him his total as she fills the travel mug, returning it and accepting the handful of loose change in exchange. By the time the receipt is printing the man has already disappeared around the corner to one of the tables hidden from the counter’s view. With no other customers, she grabs a damp cloth and a spray bottle and sets to work on the tables around the lobby.

The rest of the hour comes and goes, only four tired-looking regulars passing through for their first coffee of the day. Éponine cannot say that she misses overnight work in the least.

The tables, counters, and windows have all been cleaned and the machines have begun their nightly cleaning modes when she returns to the farthest nook of the café, crossing her arms as she leans a shoulder against the wall. “Just so you know, we’re officially Closed.”

Combeferre’s table is just as clean as it had been before he sat down, which is its own cause for celebration. In the hour that he’s been here, the only thing Éponine has seen him do is work studiously through the crossword puzzles of several newspapers.

“Do you happen to know of a 6-letter word for something that provides comfort or consolation?”

The man doesn’t look up from the newspaper, but Éponine takes his meaning. “Be ready to leave before lock-up.”

The machines are self-cleaning, so it’s only twenty more minutes before the filters have been replaced, the trash has been taken out, the drawer's been counted, and Éponine is ready to go. By the time she’s coming around the corner to remind Combeferre, the man’s bag is already packed as he scrolls through his phone. The table’s still clean, so there’s nothing more for her to do than inform him that it’s time to leave.

He stands without complaint, tucking his phone into his pocket as he does so. It’s a nice phone, probably released in the last year or two, and if she were still in the game it’d be some extremely easy cash.

She’s not, so she lets him pass her unperturbed.

“Heading home?” he asks as he follows her through the employee exit.

“Yeah. You?”

“Same.”

It’s a short walk to the bus stop, but she’s surprised to see him come to a halt beside her. She’s never paid his transportation habits much mind, but it’s not altogether shocking to find that Social Justice Leader of The Free World’s flatmate would be invested enough in reducing greenhouse gas emissions to stoop to public transit like the rest of them.

Still, it is unexpected for him to get on the same bus as her, even moreso to sit in the seat across from her despite the entire rest of the bus being empty.

“I thought you lived on the other end of town?” The side that kids with rich parents and aspirations of being a doctor live on, the one where windows don’t need cages and apartment complexes have people waiting at a front desk in the lobby.

The man shrugs. “I have an errand to run over here tonight.”

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push the issue.

That is, until he gets off at the same stop as her. “What are you doing?” she hisses once they’ve both exited, yanking an earbud out of his ear.

Wincing, he pulls out the other and wraps the cord around his phone, tucking both into his pocket with the end hanging partially out like an idiot. 

Understanding dawns on her. “Are you escorting me home?”

Even if the streetlights weren’t an even mix of ‘shot out’ and ‘shit,’ she suspects that she wouldn’t be able to read his expression. “Yes.”

“And you figured that following me was the best way to inform me?”

“Would you have let me otherwise?”

“No.”

“Then it seems my suspicions are confirmed.”

“I don’t—” _The nerve._ “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“No,” he answers calmly, “but it probably doesn’t hurt to have someone else around.”

Her lips press together: fighting experience or no, street smarts or no, _armed or no,_ being a small Latina woman alone in a dangerous neighborhood is never ideal odds.

He doesn’t rub it in her face like some might when she doesn’t respond, but he does make a motion to pull out his earbuds again.

“What are you, an idiot? Put those back,” she snaps, smacking his hand away from his pocket.

Acquiescing, he shoots her a puzzled look. “Why?” 

A frustrated huff escapes her as her brows further furrow, eyes ahead. “If you’re gonna walk with me, you can’t be pulling stupid shit like that, that’s why.”

“But I’m just—”

“Yeah, and I’m sure that works fine in your fancy fairy-land neighborhood, but here everyone can see that you can’t hear and where you keep your phone. Doesn’t matter that you’re a six-foot-plus man if they can see you’re the equivalent of a fucking GTA stoplight.”

Combeferre remains quiet, but when Éponine looks back up at him she can see that he’s at least kept his headphones away, which is good enough for her. 

“By the way, it was ‘solace.’”

“Hm?”

“Your word. For your puzzle. ‘Solace.’” The cold air stings her skin as the peace offering hangs tentatively between them. “You probably already figured that out, but—” 

There’s movement in the corner of her eye, and she catches Combeferre’s elbow as he slips forward over a particularly icy patch that she hadn’t thought to warn him about.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Are you?”

For someone so smart, Combeferre can be a real dumbass: it would seem there truly is common ground in his friendship with Grantaire. “I’m not the one who nearly broke my fucking leg on some black ice.” 

“Right.” Despite her catch, Combeferre has still managed to come crashing onto his knees and is nearly at a height with her, which Éponine might be more tickled by if it wasn’t so annoying. Stepping back up to his feet, he brushes himself off gives each leg a cautious bend. “Everything seems to be in working order, so I would say that I am.”

“Gonna have some hellish bruising in the morning,” she comments as they start off again. The walk is definitely taking longer than usual, but she can’t find it in herself to mind. “R did that last week and spent the whole morning the next day bitching about it.”

“Did he call Joly?”

“Oh, if he’s bitching about it it means he’s fine. It’s when he’s quiet that you know he has internal hemorrhaging.” The thought reminds her— “So is this what you two were discussing last night? Did R ask you to look after me?”

His throat clears awkwardly. “Actually, I was the one who offered. I heard you both before the meeting—”

“Of course you did.”

“—and with finals over, I find myself with some free time in the coming weeks.”

Somehow this is even worse than if Grantaire had asked him to. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to. I offered. I am offering.”

She recognizes it for the question it is but elects to ignore it. “So does that mean that you didn’t spend almost an hour discussing deep space versus the deep sea?”

Combeferre’s voice is wry with amusement when he answers. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

When they do eventually arrive at her building, Éponine feels almost disappointed. “How are you planning on getting home, now that you’ve done your White Knight bit? Don’t see any noble steeds around.”

A chuckle comes in response. “This would be quite the operation if I wasn’t comfortable getting home on my own, wouldn’t it?”

She shrugs: her friends are kind and intelligent and well-meaning, but almost all of them are certifiably braindead, and she absolutely would not put it past them not to have thought past the front door of her building. It’s cold, so she begins punching in the code without awaiting further explanation. “Well, if whatever your plan is doesn’t work out or you decide that the shadows do scare you or whatever, R and I have a perfectly serviceable couch upstairs. And mulled wine, if you need a place to wait for a ride or something.”

Combeferre’s head is already shaking before she finishes. “I’ll be good, but I appreciate the offer. Thank you.”

Éponine nods curtly. “Good night then.”

“You too,” he smiles, turning away with his hands tucked securely into his pockets. 

“Wait,” she hears herself say, evidenced further by the cloud of breath dissipating in front of her face. The figure pauses, pivoting slightly toward her. “I don’t work Thursdays, so if you show up tomorrow you’re gonna be walking home alone like a loser.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **My beta-reader:** A loser...like when she's been walking home alone up until now?


	2. Chapter 2

Whether or not he came on Thursday is neither Éponine’s concern nor her business, but Friday Combeferre appears at the counter one hour before closing with his thermos already in-hand. Tufts of snow are melting in his hair and leave long, wet drip-lines on his coat.

“Lancelot,” she nods, corner of her mouth quivering upward as she accepts the mug.

“More of a Gawain, really.”

“Does that make me Guinevere?”

He chuckles. “Definitely Gawain.”

Her eyebrows raise as whatever personal joke he just made flies over her head. “Same as before?”

“If it’s not a problem.”

“I get paid hourly for this,” she responds dryly. “I think I can manage the easiest drink we provide.”

The transaction is a quick one, and once it’s concluded Combeferre disappears off to the same corner as last time.

During the term the café is bustling every night of the week, but in the final hour of the store’s operations she gets only her regulars and a couple stopping in for hot cocoa, faces red with cold. 

“It’s really piling up out there,” the taller woman warns, rubbing her hands together. “Be careful when you’re going home.”

Her partner nods in agreement, cheeks flush as she accepts the cocoas Éponine hands her with mittened hands. 

“You walk?”

“Yeah. We don’t live too far, but we didn’t want to risk the car.”

“Also _someone_ was looking for an excuse for a snowball fight,” the taller one says pointedly, smirking.

The shorter woman shrugs smugly as they turn away from the counter. “You’re just annoyed you lost.”

“I did not—”

“We’ll let the rematch on the way home decide that!” 

Their conversation is lost to Éponine as they settle into a sofa in the far corner of the café. Normally couples here make her roll her eyes, but Éponine finds herself smiling as she begins wiping down tables.

It _is_ piling up, she sees as she draws closer to the tables nestled up beside the windows. A quick check of the app tells her that her bus is still on-track to run, but even with it looking like the department of transportation is keeping up with the main road for now, she doesn’t imagine they’ll be able to do so for long.

“Roads aren’t looking so good,” she tells Combeferre when she arrives at his nook. Someone made a damned mess at the table beside his, and she’d bet money that it was the boomer couple that had left right before he arrived.

The comment earns her a concerned look. “Are the buses still running?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Then I’ll be fine.” Frowning, he returns his attention to his current crossword puzzle. “I don’t suppose you happen to know a seven-letter word for ‘queen bee’? Second letter is E, it’s not Bets—”

“Beyoncé,” she answers, tossing a handful of dirty napkins into the trash with a frown.

The suggestion is met with silence. “It fits.”

“Of course it does.” Without looking up from her work, she nods toward the fresh stack of papers beside him. “Where are you getting all of these, anyway?” 

“Here and there,” he shrugs. “My neighbors and cohorts know I like them, so they set them aside for me when they find them. End of term was pretty hectic, so I have a backlog to work through now.” His tone is unaffected, but Combeferre doesn’t seem overly upset with this turn of events.

“Lucky you. Well, if you change your mind about the weather sitch, feel free to scram whenever.”

This time he doesn’t answer. With the last of the clutter cleared, Éponine returns to her post with twenty minutes left on the clock ‘til close.

She can’t start cleaning the machines for at least another fifteen minutes and has already finished sweeping and mopping, so she begins consolidating trash to pass the time, dragging one bag out preemptively and trusting that any inconveniently-timed customers will be physically capable of Waiting a Goddamned Minute for her to get back.

Outside she can see just how bad the weather’s gotten: the roads remain a slushy-yet-navigable mess, but the back way where nobody has cleared has already collected enough snow to reach over the tops of her boots and nearly to her knees. It’s the thick, crunchy kind with a good layer of ice sealed over the top: perfect for packing and stomping through, miserable to shovel.

 _If Combeferre wants to be a stubborn bastard about this, let him,_ she shrugs, using a push-broom to brush the snow from the top of the dumpster before opening it. _No one’s choosing to mug anyone in this._

(She hopes Grantaire remembered to lock up before he left: the last thing she needs tonight is to deal with squatters.)

Heading back in, she takes care to stomp off the snow that continues to cling to her. Sure, she has the time to re-mop the back, but it would cut into her plans to stalk the tag for her tv show on twitter, and what would she do then?

Tonight she doesn’t have to prompt him: by the time the machines have finished their cleaning modes, Combeferre is already waiting in the lobby with his coat zipped and his messenger bag over his shoulder looking at something on his phone. Éponine doesn’t say anything to acknowledge him, holding the door open expectantly and waiting for him to pass through, which he does without needing to be told.

Her scarf and gloves had been last-second grabs that afternoon, but as they trudge through the snow to the cleared and salted sidewalk she digs her hands a little deeper into her pockets, grateful for her precaution. Given that Nerdboy left well-after the snow had begun, it’s his own damned fault if he came unprepared.

The bus, though late, does arrive, and the driver doesn’t seem too pleased about it. Once Éponine’s bus pass has been scanned she finds her seat on the otherwise-vacant vehicle, not altogether irritated when Combeferre takes the seat across from her again.

“Blondie worried?” she guesses as the man quickly types something.

“Hm? Oh, no. Lead on our research team. Just checking in on everyone who’s—well, on me.” The phone returns to his pocket, and Éponine takes a moment to envy the thick wool fingerless gloves he wears. Jehan promised her a pair a couple weeks back, but ey’ve been as busy as everyone else this month. 

She could leave it be, but her signal is shit right now, and the inclimate weather means that she can’t time her stop like she normally does. “Why’s that?”

“She knows I left the lab after her today, and I volunteered to record our measurements tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“Science waits for no one,” Combeferre shrugs. “She said she’d take care of weekends and Christmas day when I agreed to stay over break, but her in-laws arrive tomorrow to settle in before Hanukkah, and I offered to give her the day off to start preparations with them.”

“Sounds like I’m not your only damsel-in-distress.”

“No, but you are my only Guinevere.” It’s said with a quirked brow, and Éponine can’t help but snort.

“Flattering, Galahad.”

“Gawain,” he corrects.

“Pretty sure I went to school with a G’Wayne.”

“Yes, but did your Gawain best the giant Persian champion Gormund in Jerusalem after three days of single hand-to-hand combat?”

“No, but he did get suspended from school for throwing a bag of shit into the ceiling and wasn’t allowed to walk at graduation.”

“A worthy combatant.”

“Isn’t Gawain the one who gets killed by the rabbit in Monty Python?”

“It’s a tough world for us Gawains.”

“Clearly.”

No one else boards before their stop, and the driver offers only an annoyed grunt as they disembark. Things look even worse than they had been when they’d boarded at the shop, but at least a city-wide ordinance keeps the sidewalks generally walkable.

Around them, the world remains utterly silent as flakes continue falling in clumps, muffling what little sound there is in the misty, abandoned streets. 

Grantaire did remember, which doesn’t stop Éponine from double-checking the entire flat for unwanted intruders before she finally relaxes enough to take off her boots and start some hot cocoa.

As she waits for the milk to heat, she pulls out a mop. A dry mopping should be enough to take care of the damp footprints she’d trailed through their cramped apartment, and she barely pays the task any mind as her phone vibrates in her pocket. 

[22.59] **glasses nerd:** Im snowed in  
[22.59] **glasses nerd:** _[photo attached]_

Not that Éponine doubted him, but _damn_ is his car truly and properly fucked. 

[23.00] **You:** ill buzz you in

By ‘buzz you in’ she means ‘manually open the door for you because our building is not nearly that nice.’ She doesn’t bother relacing her boots before going back down the three flights, glad to have kept her coat on in the frigid cold of the stairwell.

When she arrives, Combeferre is already waiting, looking slightly less composed than he had left her as he rubs snow-matted gloved hands together for warmth. 

“Thank you,” he says as he hurries into the building, smoke billowing from his mouth in the arid cold.

“No problem.” They start back up the stairs; she’s not particularly eager for the exercise, but with any luck the space heater will be starting to warm the flat, and the milk should be about ready. “My shift doesn’t start until 2, so we’ll have plenty of time to dig you out in the morning.”

The footsteps behind her stop. “Tomorrow?”

Turning, she raises an eyebrow. “You’re sure as shit not driving anywhere tonight.” 

He shifts uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“We have a couch, you’re fine. What did you expect when you texted?” The cold is reaching inside of her open puff jacket, and she starts back up the stairs again.

“A shovel?” he guesses.

“It’s eleven, and the roads are fucking awful.” Her trudge pauses as a thought catches up to her. “Your thing tomorrow with the measurements, what time do you need to be in for that?”

“For accuracy’s sake, I’d like to be there by 11. Should be out of your hair before 10:30.”

Perfect: even being around Grantaire all the time can feel emotionally exhausting, and if she doesn’t get her uninterrupted alone time her shift tomorrow is gonna be hell. “Sounds good.”

In the several minutes she’s been away, the flat has only barely warmed, but the milk hasn’t begun boiling yet, which she takes as a success. “Make yourself at home,” she offers grandly, turning off the stove and trying subtley to check that in the three (3) minutes she was out no one has managed their way through the locked, barred windows or wandered in through the unlocked front door from elsewhere in the building. So far, so good. “You’re a little tall for our ilk, but I’m sure R has a shirt that’ll fit you fine somewhere around here. There’s some coin washer-dryers in the basement, too, if you wanna take your chances with that.”

Combeferre is still standing in their living room, gawking like some tall idiot. “You’ve got a lot of candles.”

Ah. That would do it. “Yeah, that’d be R: turns out modernday Saturnalia is difficult to celebrate without inherent in-home class structure, feasting, sacrifices, or being allowed to attract mice by leaving cake crumbs all over the Goddamned place.” Cocoa and sugar are dumped indiscriminately into the milk, the way God intended. “Fire hazards were the compromise.”

“He had mentioned that he celebrates,” Combeferre admits. “I suppose I didn’t consider what that would entail for any roommates.”

Shrugging, Éponine taps in some cinnamon, red pepper, and a healthy amount of vanilla before stirring. “It’s not so bad. There’s a lot of decorative overlap, and he lets Gav be the…” She’s going to get this wrong if she tries it in Latin. “The King of Fools, basically.” 

_“Saturnalicius princeps,”_ Combeferre offers.

“Yeah.”

“How does that go?”

Distributing the cocoa between two mugs, she huffs. “Makes me feel less bad about his only being here two days.” A mug is offered to Combeferre, and he accepts it gratefully, clutching his bare hands around the ceramic with a smile.

“No tree?”

 _The tree._ “Apparently for Saturnalia they prefer decorating living trees outside.”

“They do.”

“We compromised.” After years and years of stolen ornaments and bitchy side-comments about religious erasure. “The garland and shit is allowed to be fake, but in return he drags a _live fucking tree_ in every year.”

“I bet Jehan likes that.”

“Jehan’s the one who takes us.” She sighs. “The kids have fun picking it out, and it keeps Blondie off of our asses, but fuck if it isn’t messy.”

“Trees tend to have that effect,” Combeferre smirks, finally taking his first sip of cocoa.

“Just hide a pine-scented candle in with all the rest in here and get one of those eco-friendly fake ones. Same damned difference.” Despite her complaining, she still smiles into her drink: she’d never had a real tree before Grantaire—never had any tree at all, really. What had started as drunken tomfoolery for him had become a sacred tradition for all of them—literally, in Grantaire’s case—and she can’t imagine the holiday season without it.

“Did you put pepper in this?” 

Fuck, right: she should have asked. “That a problem?”

“No,” he answers, sounding surprised even to himself. “It’s good. I wasn’t expecting it.” 

“Warms you from the inside out.”

“It’s how my grandmother makes it,” Combeferre confides.

“Pretty sure it’s how all ethnic people make it. What’s it that Bossuet always says? ‘If it’s not spicy, it’s not good’?”

“Words to live by,” he agrees solemnly. “Though his track record with his personal red pepper store makes that claim somewhat dubious.”

“You’re not wrong.” 

A shirt and pair of pajama pants that come halfway up Combeferre’s shins are located, and once he’s finished showering his snow-damp clothes are hung over the shower rod to dry.

“There’s another comforter if you get cold,” Éponine tells him once he’s finished changing in Grantaire’s room, “and there should be a fleece blanket in the chest if you want.” Normally she’d let him have Grantaire’s bed and let her flatmate deal with it, but Friday and Saturday nights at the bar are especially rigorous with Grantaire often not returning until 5 in the morning, and the last thing he needs is to find that she’s leased his bed out to a veritable giant who may or may not moonlight as a blanket hog.

“Thank you, I really appreciate it. I promise, I’ll be out first thing.”

“Wake me before you leave,” Éponine warns, crossing her arms sternly. “I want to be sure to lock the door.” And help with shoveling, that’s going to be hellish at best.

There’s a twinkle in his eye when he smiles back, seeming to read her meaning. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

Nodding awkwardly, she points a thumb over her shoulder. “I’m going to bed now. So, uh. Good night.”

“Sleep tight.”

She squints at him. “…you too.”

When she’s checked that all of the doors and windows are securely locked, she lets herself into her room and locks that door as well. Whatever wake-up call she may receive, she’d rather receive it at a distance.

Crawling into the warmth of her bed and plugging in her phone to charge, she quickly lets her flatmate know about their intentional squatter, putting it back down when the message indicates that it’s been read and quickly falling into a dreamless slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our G'Wayne's name was Zeke.
> 
> Anyway, Grantaire doesn't plan his life around it or anything, but when he started university he started worshipping Roman gods for the hell of it and then got kind of into it. Not a huge community in their parts, but he has some personal worship rituals and some places on his bucket list to visit.


	3. Chapter 3

“Ép!” Three sharp raps follow. “Breakfast is ready!”

_Breakfast?_

It takes a moment for her brain to zero in on that it is not Grantaire’s voice on the other side of the door and another three full seconds of wide-eyed panic to remember that Combeferre has stayed the night.

Groaning into her pillow, she flips over onto her stomach until another set of knocks comes at the door. “I need to be heading out within the hour, and these pancakes are hot.”

The promise of pancakes drags another growl out of her before she throws the duvet away in defeat and lugs herself upright, bleary eyes falling on the fleece robe hanging from the wall. Her feet are cold as she pads over to it, tying the sash haphazardly at the waist before opening the door with all the grace of a trash compactor.

“Good morning,” Combeferre greets her warmly, whisking something in a mixing bowl. Whatever time it is is too early for such pleasantries, and she hopes her glare imparts as much. “Coffee’s in the pot.”

 _Finally, some_ sense _in this household._

A mug is also beside the machine, and she fills it gratefully, eyes open only as much as the task requires before shutting again once the coffee is firmly in her grasp and being raised to her mouth. There’s a word for the blind awareness of where the parts of your face are, Grantaire had told her once, but she has not had her first coffee yet nor does she work with young children, so she’s not worrying about it.

It takes a cup and a half before her stomach finally wakes up and makes her aware of its discomfort. “You mentioned pancakes?”

Her guest appears to have taken her earlier cue regarding conversation that is not expressly necessary, wordlessly sliding a plate of two toward her. “What do you want with it?”

“There’s Haitian peanut butter above the stove.”

Musichetta’s annual winter holiday gift appears before her, accompanied by a butter knife to spread it: Combeferre truly might be the most brilliant person she has ever met.

Two pancakes and another mug and a half of coffee later, Éponine is finally beginning to feel slightly more hospitable. “Sleep well?”

“Mm? Oh, yes, I slept fine.”

“That’s a lie.” The sleepy interjection comes from the direction of Grantaire’s room, the man sporting full bedhead and scratching at his stomach unattractively. Combeferre’s features remain neutral, but his lack of response is rather damning.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Could be that he wasn’t physically capable of getting off the sofa, I don’t think I’ve seen a jumble of limbs that severe since that time you and I were fucking around with Procreate’s model settings.”

Éponine’s eyebrows raise at Combeferre in the least impressed expression she can muster, which she has been informed is Very Unimpressed.

“It was fine,” Combeferre assures her, “and Grantaire invited me to share with him when he saw me—”

“—because you were awake at Fuck o’Clock when I got in.”

Sighing deeply, Combeferre shoots Grantaire what she imagines is his own Most Unimpressed Look, which is also rather unimpressed.

Her eyes catch on the stove clock. “You said you wanted to be out of here by ten-thirty?”

“Around then, yes,” Combeferre affirms. “Earlier would be ideal: the roads look icy.”

She takes his word for it. “We’d better get going, then.”

The Hall Closet of Mysteries that Grantaire claims to have reorganized before decorating holds, for no reason either of them can fathom nor remember, two snow shovels; Éponine takes this in stride since it works in their favor but also firmly tells her flatmate to message the groupchat over it. 

“It means someone is missing theirs,” she grunts, pulling her snow pants on over her pajama bottoms, “and I don’t want to deal with those repercussions.”

On the street, the once-glistening snow is already gray with city pollution, but the sidewalks are walkable and the streets are clear. Combeferre leads her to one of the very few places within a block of her building that one can safely park a vehicle, only solidifying her suspicion that Grantaire was more instrumental in making Combeferre’s White Knight scheme a reality than the latter had let on. _At least he’s no snitch._

With the combination of the continued accumulation throughout the night and the snow that had been carelessly pushed out of the way to clear the sidewalk, Combeferre’s little sedan is well and truly stuck. It takes fifteen minutes of shovelling before Éponine can even make out the bumper.

“‘Noble steed,’ huh?” she snorts when she recognizes the make.

“Hm?” he hums, looking up from the other side of the car.

“A Mustang?”

“Ah.” His voice curls around the sound as though she’s been let in on an inside joke. “That.”

“Gawain indeed.”

“I strive.”

“You succeed.”

The way between the car and the buildings surrounding it is narrow and involves much more careful work. While Combeferre digs out the driver’s side, Éponine runs upstairs to fetch a broom to clear the snow from on top.

“Enjolras says it’s from his place,” Grantaire calls through a mouthful of pancake, “so you can hand the shovel off to Ferre.”

“Sounds good.”

“Send him my love.”

“You could always come down and do it yourself.”

“But it sounds so much better when you say it,” he winks. 

Rolling her eyes, she flips him off goodnaturedly before heading back. 

“Apparently it’s your shovel to keep,” she informs Combeferre as she starts on layer of snow currently entrapping the Mustang’s trunk. “Goldilocks said it belongs to you guys.”

“I don’t remember ever bringing a shovel out here. I’ll have to ask him what that’s all about.”

“I don’t remember ever bringing Enjolras out here, so maybe you should.”

The sound of moving snow fills the silence. “I don’t think we’ve had a snow shovel for a couple of months at least, so there’s a good chance it got passed around the group and ended up in your closet.”

“Sounds about right: we have all sorts of shit in there that I know for a fact neither of us ever bought.”

“Skeletons in your closet?” 

“Oh no, those are definitely mine. I suspect that the inflatable pool unicorn hails from Joly, though, and I refuse to ask where the collars came from.”

“Collar?”

“Collars. Plural. Hint: they are not dog-sized.”

“I see.”

“Unfortunately, so did I.”

Clearing the snow from the top of the car, despite Éponine’s best efforts, still undoes some of their earlier digging work, and Combeferre’s windshields are both still icy once they’re finished, but he assures her that it’s nothing several minutes of defrosting won’t fix.

Checking her phone, she sees it’s already half-past ten. “You got time for that?”

“There’s always time for safety,” Combeferre assures her. “Besides, I think it’ll be faster to get to the university than usual today.”

“We’re definitely not closer,” she informs him, leery, “and the roads remain Shit.”

“True,” he concedes, “but no one else is driving today if they don’t have to.”

He’s not wrong: excepting the bonfire Éponine sees in someone’s front lawn three blocks down with a handful of people in lawn chairs set up around it, no one seems to be out today if they can help it.

“Right, well. Take care.” She looks toward the Mustang. “Gawain’s steed got a name?”

“In Arthurian legend, it’s Gringolet, but Courfeyrac calls it _‘la Rana.’”_

 _“‘La Rana.’_ Like ‘the frog,’ _la Rana?”_

“We took a speed bump a little quickly my first day with it,” Combeferre confesses. “He also calls it ‘Hoppy.’”

Why don’t they have Courfeyrac over more frequently? They should have Courfeyrac over more frequently.

“Well,” she says, slapping the hood of the trunk decisively, “you and Gringolet or _la Rana_ or whatever take it easy. R said to send his love, too.”

“Ah. Well, that is worth a lot.”

“All the wealth in the world, I’ve been assured. Usually when he owes me favors.”

“When is a friend’s love more invaluable?” Smiling, Combeferre shakes his head. “Take care, I’ll see you this evening.”

With that, Éponine hauls the remaining shovel and broom back up the stairs and to her apartment, stowing them in the tub to allow the snow to melt safely. She’s already back in bed and contemplating the few free hours she has left when— 

_This evening?_

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Sir Gawain himself does appear at exactly his normal time.

“What are you doing here?” she hisses as he approaches the counter.

Combeferre squints at her. “…purchasing a coffee?”

“You have spent fourteen of the past twenty-four hours hanging around me, don’t you have other things to be doing?” It comes out more sharply than intended, but Combeferre doesn’t seem offended.

“Would you prefer I left?” 

“I suspect you have better things to do with your time than hanging around me all day.”

“Not particularly,” he shrugs. “Almost everyone else is out of town, and everything I could do at home I can do here.”

Sighing, she accepts the travel mug. “My personality is rather dazzling.”

“Precisely,” he grins.

She rings him up and returns the thermos without ceremony. The snow seems to have driven the people in this area of the city out: tonight, there is actually a string of chattering customers behind him, and she quickly goes through their transactions and calls their names in short order. By quarter after, most of them have piled back out into the night with their hot drinks gripped tightly, only one table of people remaining besides Combeferre’s. Glancing around the lobby, she sighs before grabbing her rag, tonight heading straight back for the nook.

“Y’know, you don’t have to camp out all the way back here,” she informs him, doing a perfunctory wipe-down of a nearby table.

“I wouldn’t want to be in your way.”

“When no one’s over here, I can actually close off this section,” she explains. “Put up the chairs early, empty the trash. You’d be doing me a favor.”

He looks at her a long moment before standing and gathering his things. “All right then,” he assents.

“I mean, not that you have to,” she quickly adds.

“I was only trying to stay out of your way while you work. If this makes your life easier, I’ll gladly move.”

“Cool.” While he situates himself in the main area, Éponine wipes down the last of the tables and turns the appropriate chairs over to block off the area. 

Once she finishes and turns back to examine the lobby, she sighs: Combeferre has moved, almost intentionally, to the loveseat on the opposite side of the café. 

“There’s a much comfier chair up closer to the front,” she tells him pointedly, not bothering to go through the motions of recleaning already-spotless tables and instead resting her hands on her hips.

His eyes turn up to meet her. “I wouldn’t want to—”

“Does it look like I’m busy? You’re decent company, and it’s weird for you to spend an hour and a half waiting for me if you’re gonna camp on the other Goddamned side of the café. Besides,” she continues, “these windows are shit at keeping the cold out.”

There’s another strange look before Combeferre stands. “I hope you like inane trivia questions.”

“I live with Grantaire.”

Despite the warning, in the forty minutes that follow until the end of her shift Combeferre merely sits and writes quietly, only pausing every so often to check something on his phone. It could be texts or cheating: Éponine will never know.

After an especially long break, Combeferre puts the device down with a sigh. “Saludos-blank, 1942. Six letters.”

Pausing a moment from her own phone-twiddling, she thinks. “It’s not that Disney movie, is it? _Saludos Amigos?”_

“Amigos!” Bending over the table, he scribbles down the word, shaking his head at himself. “I vastly overthought that one.”

“How so?”

He sighs a sigh so deep that Éponine is pretty sure his soul leaves his body, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was looking into things that were introduced in Spanish-speaking countries in 1942.”

“And what were you coming up with?”

“War, mostly.”

Closing time comes shortly after. The group that had showed up shortly before Combeferre are efficient and polite when she asks them to leave, and Combeferre helps her put the chairs on the tables to get them out of the way for sweeping.

“Ready to head out?” she asks when the final machine finishes running its cleaning cycle.

“I think I am.”

The back alley, having been tramped down since last night as opposed to properly shoveled, is a matter of stepping into the established footprints until they reach the sidewalk. Éponine almost falls twice, and Combeferre has the decency to keep his Goddamned mouth shut.

The busride is quiet aside from a trio in the back who seem to be home visiting family and disappointed to find their memories of the city to be rose-tinted. They get off three stops before she and Combeferre do, and Éponine is relieved to see that the sidewalks are still generally walkable and that the elements probably haven’t collectively conspired against her do-gooder companion again.

The silence continues between them, which Éponine usually doesn’t have any problem with, but tonight it feels somehow ruder than usual. Maybe it’s because she knows that his only conversation for today has been left to her woefully inadequate capabilities. 

Up ahead, dotting the edges of someone’s emergency landing, she catches a glimpse of red that she must have missed in the blizzard the night before. “Fucking Christ. Why do people think that shit’s okay?”

“Hm?”

“Mistletoe,” she grimaces, pointing to the offending botanical.

The man doesn’t respond, and when Éponine glances over at him she sees that his mouth is pressed into a thin line.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those dumbasses who thinks it’s ‘romantic’ to force someone to kiss you. It’s disgusting.”

“Oh, no, I absolutely agree with you: it’s abhorrent to force physical intimacy if both parties are not consenting. It’s only that…”

“What?” she challenges. 

Combeferre’s hands remain buried in his pockets as he shrugs. “That’s holly. Mistletoe has white berries and rounded leaves, and holly has red berries and spiked leaves.”

She squints at him. “That’s not what Hallmark says.”

“I have a theory,” he starts, voice growing conspiratorial, “that media has popularized the incorrect plant as a consent loophole.”

“Did they now?”

“Oh yes.” Combeferre’s voice is earnest enough that she sincerely can’t tell if he’s fucking with her or not. 

“Care to elaborate?”

“Gladly.” His smile doubles in size. “Aside from the more modern celebration Grantaire throws, how familiar are you with the ancient pagan holiday traditions of Saturnalia?”

“Aside from Grantaire’s ramblings on commercialism and token representation?” she smirks. “Somewhat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre is absolutely not fucking with her and holds this theory near and dear to his heart.
> 
> "Proprioception" is the general awareness of where the parts of your body are. "Spatial awareness" is the one more commonly used in education, though.
> 
> Hoppy has taken _several_ speedbumps more quickly than is recommended, but only when they're out to have a good time. Hoppy also has really good suspensions/shocks.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a lot of research on Saturnalia and Yule and general pagan winter celebrations before/during the writing of this chapter, but if I got anything wrong or said anything offensive _please_ let me know so I can change/fix it!

A knock sounds at the door, and Éponine raises an eyebrow when Grantaire pulls himself upright and moves mostly steadily to answer it with neither Éponine having to bully nor Jehan having to guilt him to do it.

“Expecting someone?” she asks, kicking her feet up to his now-free seat.

“I texted Combeferre after he left yesterday and invited him to join in the festivities.”

“And should I be offended that you only invited him to join in the final—” she checks her phone “—fifteen minutes before I leave for work?” 

Hand already on the handle, her flatmate gives an easy shrug. “Needed a contingency plan for if you were tired of your escort.” Before Éponine can answer that the door is already swinging open. _“Io Saturnalia!”_

 _“Io Saturnalia!”_ Jehan and Éponine cheer in response, raising their wassail in automatic toast to a slightly befuddled-looking Combeferre.

“And a blessed Yule,” adds Jehan, attention already back to eir Yule altar.

Disappointingly, Combeferre seems to regain his bearings rather quickly. “Joyous Solstice,” he greets, stepping in and frowning at the table as he removes his coat. “Did something happen?”

“Ritual sacrifice,” Jehan comments blithely, as though this wholly and completely explains the meter-tall terracotta statue of Saturn in the center of the table surrounded by shreds of woolen yarn and shards of painted ceramic. If the way he is already halfway to the kitchenette is anything to judge by, Grantaire agrees with this assessment.

“Ah,” Combeferre nods, taking the empty seat opposite Éponine.

“We can’t afford an entire pig and bull as offering every year,” Éponine elaborates with a roll of her eyes, since evidently no one else will. “A piggy bank is much closer to our price range.”

Apparently Jehan has determined that eir altar is complete because ey falls back into eir seat, crossing eir arms morosely. “I couldn’t find the bull plush this year,” ey pouts. “R said he ate a hamburger yesterday, but it’s not the same.”

“I see.” Combeferre nods solemnly, and Éponine wishes she knew the source of the man’s composure and could draw from even a fraction of the font. “What is next on the agenda for solstice festivities?”

“I’m leaving for work at quarter after,” Éponine clarifies, “but I think the plans were generally to get shitfaced once I’m out, start pomanders, begin The Games, and order takeout from everywhere that will deliver here for feasting.”

Combeferre’s eyebrow raise before she finishes, but he patiently waits until she is done speaking, a novelty in this household. “‘The Games’?”

“Saturnalia typically involves gambling,” Jehan explains, taking a dainty sip of eir drink, “so we break out Risk as compromise.”

 _“Io Saturnalia!”_ Grantaire calls from the kitchenette.

 _“Io Saturnalia!”_ Jehan and Éponine cheer automatically with a raise of their cups.

“You’re sure you can’t get off tonight?” Jehan checks, jeweled lip stud (eir _festive_ lip stud, ey’d told her when ey arrived that morning in full Ghost of Christmas Past regalia) twirling anxiously.

“Not if I still want Christmas Eve,” she shrugs apologetically. The sentiment quietly knots her stomach all the same: it’s the first time since they began their annual Saturnalia-Yule joint solstice celebration back in undergrad that she’s had to miss the evening events. Still, she hadn’t even been able to get Monday off to spend with the kids. “I’ll be back after my shift, though.”

“Yeah,” Jehan sighs, “but we’re cutting ourselves off at midnight so we’re good to pick your siblings up from the station tomorrow, remember?” 

Of course she does: tomorrow is also when they’re getting their annual Live Tree, and Éponine is not doing that alone.

“Also Ferre’s a _square_ and says he’s stopping at fucking _six.”_ If their neighbors start lodging noise complaints, Grantaire’s the one paying the fine.

“Oh?” Éponine glances over at the square in question, who shrugs. “Got plans tonight?”

The square blinks at her.

“Ah. Right.” Checking her watch, Éponine stands. “I’d better get changed, then.”

“Speaking of commodifying our local quadrilateral!” Grantaire bursts through the doorway of the kitchenette, five steaming mugs of wassail balanced less carefully atop a tray than Éponine feels comfortable having to bear witness to. “Ferre, did you bring The Stuff?”

It seems wise to duck out before she’s implicated in anything she can’t deny, so Éponine does just that, stepping into her room to change into her regulation t-shirt, apron, and nametag. By the time she’s back out, Jehan is teetering precariously on eir tip-toes and staple-gunning their metaphorical security deposit to the Goddamned doorway.

“The doorway was already fucked,” Grantaire points out preemptively, narrowly avoiding sloshing mulled beverage onto their floor, “and it’s not mistletoe.”

 _So it’s not,_ she recalls, narrowing her eyes at the red berries and pointed leaves. “And what is this not-mistletoe doing all over our doorway?” There’s no way that she was out for more than three minutes, but at least twelve sprigs now litter the (already-fucked) frame. 

“Holly’s for protection,” Jehan explains, dropping the staple-gun to the table and sucking at eir thumb.

“To be fair, those fabled ‘protective qualities’ probably have more to do with the fact that we jabbed ourselves about thirty times each getting them up, the little bastards.”

“All the worse for your unwanted intruders,” their wiccan friend shrugs. 

“I brought gloves.” Combeferre’s tone indicates that this isn’t the first time he’s said as much.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Is it really Yule if everyone has uninhibited use of their fingertips?” Grantaire muses.

Tugging on her coat, Éponine offers an unconvinced snort. “Has been for the past six years.” 

“That’s because we didn’t have a source for real holly until now.” Grantaire’s crown, a tangle of gold and silver wires, almost jostles to the floor as he gives his head a cocky tilt. “‘The best time to start a tradition is twenty years ago. The second-best time is today.’”

Shaking her head, she pulls on the woolen fingerless gloves Jehan had gifted her earlier that day. “You’re drunk.”

“Maybe so,” he shrugs.

Dropping back in eir seat, Jehan reaches for one of the hot mugs from Grantaire’s tray with a cheeky grin. “The mistletoe is where it should be, in R’s bedroom.”

Despite the sputtering sound effects that follow, Grantaire seems to have managed to stop himself from spitting cider all over the table. “Ah, yes,” he says grandly once he’s swallowed the ill-timed mouthful, scarlet countenance betraying his nonchalant tone, “exactly what a bartender going to school part-time with hella student loans needs: virility.”

“In Saturn's name,” Combeferre toasts.

 _“Io Saturnalia!”_ Éponine and Jehan gleefully agree.

 _“Io Saturnalia,”_ Grantaire echoes with significantly less enthusiasm than earlier.

“Fine,” she concedes, eyeing the doorway once more as she undoes the bolt lock, “but you two are taking it down after the new year—”

“Of course,” Jehan nods.

“—the mistletoe is out before Gav steps foot in that room—”

“Duh,” Grantaire huffs, evidently deciding that it’s safe to sip his drink again.

“—and no one is burning the yule log indoors.”

“Gods, Éponine, we kno—”

_“You didn’t last year.”_

It earns a giggle from Jehan but, perhaps more satisfying, an outright guffaw from Combeferre, followed by an honest-to-God knee-slap that has Éponine fighting to stifle her own snort.

“It was a learning experience, Ép,” Grantaire grins unabashedly. “An experience that we all learned from.”

“For example, I learned that I need to tell you not to do it.”

“We’re waiting for you to return from your shift to start it anyway,” Jehan shrugs.

“Will we be seeing you there, Ferre?”

He blinks at her. “I…have work tomorrow.” 

“Sucks to suck,” she dismisses, ignoring the weird sinking feeling in her stomach as she glances again toward her watch. “Speaking of, I’d better get going.”

“Wassail for the road?” Grantaire asks, holding up a mug that she is positive is not of the nonalcoholic variety she’s been sipping at all morning.

“Pass.”

“C’mon,” he petulantly groans, “it’s an eight-hour shift at a _coffee shop:_ if you’ve gotta be churning out lattes for white yogi bitches the longest night of the year, you may as well be vibing.”

“Pass,” she repeats, grin spreading.

“Combeferre’s gonna be drinking for two,” he threatens. “Every drink you should have had. And you are a _machine.”_

 _“Io Saturnalia,”_ she sing-songs as she closes the door behind her.

 _“Io Saturnalia!”_ returns three voices from the closed flat, followed by the distinct sound of their downstairs neighbor’s broom hitting the ceiling.

“You seem surprisingly sober,” she comments when Combeferre finally appears, handing her his tumbler.

“They told you I was cutting myself off early.” 

“They don’t pay much mind to ratios when they spike their wassail.” 

“I noticed.”

“How was Risk?” she asks, pouring the coffee.

“I’m a bit fuzzy on the details,” he admits, “but I know I won.”

She knows too: the video Grantaire had sent her of Combeferre’s feral warcry from atop the game table is one she will cherish for an extremely long time. “You sure you don’t wanna pull an all-nighter with the rest of us?”

“‘Us’?” he repeats, a trace of amusement gracing his features before he gratefully accepts his coffee, chugging half of it in one go. _He suffered for that victory._

“I’ll probably get a nap in at some point, but,” she pauses to shrug, “tradition’s tradition, y’know?”

A curious look passes over his face. “I suppose that’s not untrue. I’ll think on it.”

Tonight Combeferre settles into the armchair beside the counter without prompting. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t say much, but his presence is somehow a comfort even in the absence of conversation. In a way, the quiet is more of a relief, a reprieve from having to put on a face for yet another customer.

A steady trickle of customers has been in and out all evening, but thirty minutes until closing she finds that it’s just her, Combeferre, and a man who’s been camped at one of the window seats most of the evening. Éponine has been keeping an eye on him to assure that he hasn’t been vandalizing the shop’s table/chair/window, but scattered glances throughout the evening have only revealed that her closing responsibilities tonight will likely also include restocking the table’s supply of creamer and artificial sweetener packets.

No, it isn’t until he finally approaches the counter, pulling the hood of his coat over his head and reaching into a hidden inner pocket that she is finally acquainted with the full scope of the situation.

“Hands in the air, open the drawer, _now!”_

A forced steadiness falls over her as she raises her hands to a visible height that is not altogether unfamiliar to her. She knows the procedure: follow the instructions, don’t be a hero, and alert management and the police after. Like she’s gonna be risking her ass for some chain’s pocket change. In any case, they’ve got hours and hours of video footage of the perp (dumbass), and she can give a good physical description when The Pigs do show.

Still: there is _a gun in her face,_ and out of the corner of her eye she can see that Combeferre is sitting very, very still.

A hand slams to the counter as Dipshit says something she’s sure is meant to speed her up. Instead, her eyes flit back over to Combeferre briefly before returning to barrel of the gun as her hands move slowly toward the cash drawer. Her deep breath is half-over when her attention snags on a detail that makes her frown.

“Is that a—are you fucking kidding me?” Moving without thinking, she reaches across the counter to grab at the snub-nosed barrel, twisting the the would-be assailant’s arm and knocking up under his elbow. The _crack_ ing sound is followed by the man crumpling to the ground as she examines the ‘firearm.’ “Jesus, what’d you do, lift this off a kid?” 

There’s still remnants of the orange plastic that had been hastily sawed off at some point, and now that it’s out of his grasp she can see that the grip is so poorly-manufactured that there are still flecks of plastic sticking out from the seams. Pathetic.

“Stick to holding up lemonade stands, yeah?” The plastic crushes in her grip, raining down on the would-be thief in several pieces when she finally drops it over his writhing form. “Get your clown-ass out of my shop. Fucking Bozo up in here.”

Apparently recognizing the out for what it is, the man scrambles to his feet as best he can while holding his injured arm and hurries out the front doors, hood flapping ineffectually behind him. 

It takes a minute for the adrenaline to catch up to her, heavy breathing beginning to set in as she looks up to Combeferre again. Neither of them have said anything yet, and he seems a little shell-shocked himself.

“Well,” he says, holding up his phone to reveal a half-filled crossword puzzle that he must have been working on before the failed hold-up, “I figured out the two-letter pagan salutation.”

That gives her pause before a disbelieving grin breaks wide across her face. _“‘Io Saturnalia’?”_

_“‘Io Saturnalia.’”_

“Just so you know,” she informs him as they get off at her normal stop, “if you so much as breathe a word of this to Grantaire, I will bury your body in so many back alleys that they will never find all of you.”

The threat is met with silence, and when she looks up to gauge Combeferre’s reaction she sees him nodding thoughtfully. “Noted. Does that happen often?”

Even if it did, she wouldn’t admit it. “The place has been robbed before, but that was the first time I was on for it.” She shakes her head again. “Toy fucking gun, what the actual fuck.”

“It’s not as uncommon as you might think,” Combeferre shrugs. “Statistically.”

Well yeah, no shit: her parents certainly hadn’t been shelling out the big bucks for everyone to have their own, even in their prime. “He was an amateur.”

Dread sets in as she realizes the hellish line of questioning that the comment is wont to entail, but if the man has any questions he keeps them to himself.

The rest of the walk to her flat is silent but for infrequent bouts of humming from Gawain, a tune Éponine is pretty sure comes from a show Grantaire’s been watching but isn’t familiar enough with her flatmate’s nerdish tendencies to be able to pinpoint with any accuracy.

“So,” she re-attempts when her building is in-sight, “you sure you’re all Solstice’d out? Jehan and Grantaire put on a hell of a Battle of King Oak and King Holly every year. Work or no, I assure you it’s worth the extra hour.”

There it is, that strange look again. “You want me there?”

“I just invited you, didn’t I?”

“Well yes, but.” He shrugs. “I was under the impression that you were being polite before. You hadn’t been a part of my initial invitation, and we have seen one another almost every day for the past week.”

The protest is halfway out of her mouth before Éponine catches it, turning it over in her head. It’s true, she hadn’t been a part of the original asking him over, and even Grantaire had been expecting her to have tired of Combeferre by now, but she’s finding that he isn’t nearly the energy sink that interactions with a lot of other people always are, and something about this makes her feel uncomfortable saying the words aloud.

Instead, she substitutes, “Well, you’re invited by me, if you want.”

Even with their trash-fire-that-is-actually-a-yule-log-with-trash-fire-aesthetics, the rooftop is still fucking cold.

“You could cut glass with my nipples,” Grantaire shivers. “They’re fucking _diamonds.”_

“Have you considered a coat?” Éponine may as well be shouting into the sky for all of the weight it will carry with her flatmate. “Or like. Not sitting on the fucking ground?”

_“I’m getting into character.”_

“Jehan seems to be doing well enough without.”

“Jehan’s King Oak, that’s different, ey’re supposed to be warm and sunshiney!”

“And King Holly is supposed to be a bitter bastard who freezes to death in his own winter?” Éponine surmises, unimpressed. 

“Ouch, too close to home.”

“You know,” Combeferre interrupts, “in many Eastern European countries there is a superstition that sitting directly on the concrete ground will make a vagina-having person infertile.”

Grantaire throws his hands up dramatically. “Hear that, Jehan? My ovaries are gonna freeze. Where’s your mistletoe in my virility’s time of need?”

“You don’t have ovaries.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Yes we do,” answers multiple voices.

Giving a theatrical huff, Grantaire falls to his back before rolling back up, apparently having decided that that was a terrible idea. “Tell me this, Ferre: do people in Eastern Europe also have more than a singular yule log to burn for their solstice celebration.”

“Well,” Combeferre says, pushing his glasses up on his nose and huddling a little more deeply into the fleece blanket they’d brought up earlier, “I couldn’t recall how prevalent pagan practices are with any sort of accuracy, but the traditional Norse yule celebration lasted for twelve days and almost certainly involved the burning of multiple logs, if not at the very least a much larger one than this.”

Grantaire looks at the man with glassy eyes, mouth uncharacteristically shut for an entire ten seconds before he responds. “Oh you too? You’re gonna hurt me too?”

Beside Éponine in the double-seater lawn chair that someone in their group must have picked up in their early uni days, Jehan giggles. 

“Combeferre, you are officially invited every year,” Éponine decides. “Takes a rare and special person to shut Grantaire up, and you seem to be it.”

“We do have more firewood, though,” Jehan points out. “Musichetta dropped it off earlier, I put it in the bathtub. Turns out Joly and Bossuet are allergic?”

“And where was I for this?”

“I believe at that point you had taken it upon yourself to spread the cheer and merriment with all of the contacts on your phone, and your neighbors encouraged you to take your conversation elsewhere.”

“That does explain several of the texts my phone is off to avoid right now.”

“R is avoiding texts?” Combeferre bends over to whisper beside Éponine’s ear.

“It’s very new,” she responds. “He calls it ‘self pres-R-vation.’”

“Of course he does,” the man chuckles, straightening back up.

“Well,” Jehan says loudly with a glance at eir own phone, “as it would appear that we are still a ways off from our glorious battle, do we want to go down to the apartment to warm up and grab more wassail and logs?”

“And end our glorious and well-preserved tradition of drinking wine straight from the bottle directly on the cold concrete and huddling around our single-log fire?” 

Éponine sighs deeply at her flatmate.

 _“Fuck_ tradition,” he announces, standing a little too suddenly on unsteady legs and leaving his wine bottle behind.

The rest of the night passes in a warm haze as the wassail Éponine finally did imbibe works its magic and ritual after ritual unfolds before her. A dramatic battle is fought and won by the Oak King, negative feelings and holdovers are scratched down on pages and pages’ worth of slips of notebook paper before disappearing into the blaze, and in the presence of her friends the endless night feels somehow less endless.

At some point she must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knows she’s blinking blearily into a skyline rich in indigo and purples and hints of pink, and Jehan and Grantaire are jumping and hooting and crying as if the rise of the sun was ever something that they even momentarily doubted.

Fabric shifts under her cheek, and Éponine realizes that she must have fallen asleep shortly after Combeferre had taken up residence beside her. His sleep appears unperturbed, a soft whistle sounding on his exhales, and Éponine is careful not to wake him as she extracts herself from the chair and approaches the edge of the building to take in the first light of a new and longer day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Io Saturnalia!_
> 
> [Apparently](https://www.whychristmas.com/customs/wassailing.shtml) wassail was originally made from mulled ale, curdled cream, roasted apples, eggs, cloves, ginger, nutmeg, and sugar and served from a silver bowl. (The gang do not go wassailing because the first/last/only time they did they were nearly arrested for drunken disorderly conduct with an additional evading arrest if they had gotten caught.) Modern recipes by and large call for apple cider, orange and/or pineapple juice, a variety of spices (often including cinnamon/allspice), and alcohol of your choice.
> 
> Pomanders are oranges with cloves jabbed into them. They smell nice.
> 
> Combeferre is humming "Toss a Coin to Your Witcher." He does not think of himself as Jaskier, but he is definitely envisioning a white-haired Éponine.
> 
> Disclaimer: _Do not take on an assaultant in an armed robbery, don't risk your life deepthroating corporate boot on the off-chance that you look cool._ You'll probably lose your job for not following protocol, and more importantly you could lose your life.


	5. Chapter 5

Éponine is not worried. She’s not. There is nothing to worry about—why would she worry? 

Except it’s already half-past and Gawaine or Geralt or _whatever_ still hasn’t shown up.

It’s not like she lacks for company: since Jehan dropped Gavroche off before leaving for eir family’s, he’s been keeping her plenty occupied telling her about the video game his foster parents got him in between sips of cocoa. 

Had the stick-up scared off her self-appointed bodyguard? Sure, he hadn’t seemed fazed once the initial shock had blown over, and he had still accompanied her home, but it would be entirely understandable if the occurrence had put him off of the commitment altogether. After all, Combeferre had signed up for discouraging strangers on the walk back, not sitting front-seat to armed robberies. She’d already had a good hour on the drive to the train station that morning while Jehan and Grantaire napped in the backseat of the car to mull over how rash it had been for her to act on her hunch with another person there as potential collateral: protocol is to hand over the money. It’s not like it’s coming out of her pocket. 

Every table in the lobby has been wiped down at least twice already, and Éponine is still nodding absently along to Gavroche's detailed guide on EV training (despite not even playing Pokémon) when the sleigh bells at the front door give a vague jingle, a blast of chilled air sweeping into the café.

“Sorry I’m late,” Combeferre apologizes before even reaching the counter.

“Encounter more Persian giants on your way?” she quips, mostly to obscure her relief.

“Close: the university decided to cut power to the campus tonight and only sent out the warning email this afternoon, so everyone who's free has been running around all evening trying to get a hold of the board and, failing that, acquire a backup generator.”

Éponine hums. “And how did that go?”

A wild grin crosses his face as he sighs. “Got the generator.”

 _“Io_ day-after _Saturnalia.”_

 _“Io_ day-after _Saturnalia,”_ he agrees.

“Got your cup?”

The smile falls from Combeferre’s face with an exasperated sigh. “I knew I forgot something.”

“No worries,” she assures, grabbing one of the café’s biggest mugs. “As long as you’re staying in, you can use one of these. I’ll wash it before we head out.”

“Why do I have to wash mine?” Gavroche complains without looking up from his game.

“Because Combeferre is paying for his, and you’re not.” Also because Combeferre looks ready to drop, a sentiment Éponine feels all too intimately.

Once the transaction is complete, she expects Combeferre to return to one of the distant seats, given that the one he has used the past two nights is currently the residence of her brother’s ass; instead, he pulls up a chair beside Gavroche, stretching out his legs before retrieving his crossword puzzles from his messenger bag.

“Hey, Gav,” Combeferre says a few minutes later, “I don’t suppose you would happen to know much about space?”

“Nope.”

The dismissal is so abrupt that Éponine has to bite her lip to keep from laughing. She politely ignores the way Combeferre, local space expert, shuffles to a different puzzle. “Eight-letter Japanese gaming company?”

That at least earns a huff and an eye-roll from Gavroche, and Éponine really does need to be more cautious with her behavior around him. “Nintendo. Obviously.”

“Ah, of course.” A show is made of writing down the answer, though Éponine only knows it to be as much because the university student has passed the past week here. “Do you know the abbreviation used for shooters?”

“Probably FPS,” Gavroche tells the first-place winner of Les Amis’s annual Call of Duty charity tournament.

“I see.” Combeferre’s pen scratches at the paper again. “Is there a famous hedgehog in the gaming world?”

Closing his game with a sigh, Gavroche finally looks up at the man beside him. “Hand it over Nerdboy, you clearly need help.”

Another place, another time, this response would have earned her brother a lecture. Seeing the two both leaned intently over the puzzle as Gavroche scribbles down answer after answer, pausing to explain the rationale behind some or correct himself when Combeferre provides a gentle nudge that her brother may have been overly hasty makes Éponine reluctant to interrupt the scene.

Closing comes and goes, and after returning her empty drawer to her register and verifying that the final machine is done, she turns her attention back to her final customers. “You about done with your mugs?”

“I can get them,” Gavroche says with an air of casual nonchalance, grabbing his and Combeferre’s mugs before the man can protest and moving at a less-than-nonchalant pace toward the sink behind the counter.

“Wish he was that enthusiastic about cleaning up after breakfast.”

The comment is met with a low chuckle. “I’m sure I’m not the only one he’s showing off for.”

It’s weird because she knows it’s true: the Magnons only let Éponine see Azelma and Gavroche one weekend a month and the twins not at all. They’re good to her siblings, and she’s grateful to be able to keep them in her life at all, but she sees how it chafes at her brother particularly, and she knows that for all of his airs he really is on his best behavior for her when he visits.

Gavroche returns, and she herds them out the back door before locking it behind her, for once grateful to have a second pair of eyes available as she does to watch her brother while her back is turned.

“So, what did you spend the day doing?” Combeferre asks as they approach the stop.

The question could be directed toward either of them, so Éponine nudges Gavroche. “What did we do?”

Two years in a cushy upperclass neighborhood apparently has not cost her brother his common sense: the game is already away, and he scowls at her before answering. “We got a tree.”

“And?”

Huffing, he begrudgingly continues. “And we decorated it, and Jehan and R made Bûche de Noël and yule log cookies with us.”

“Is that something you do every year?”

The question gives Gavroche pause before he looks up at Éponine. “Is it?”

And _fuck,_ she hadn’t meant to steer the conversation back to their still-tenuous relationship with seasonal traditions. “It’s something we’ve been doing since we’ve had a kitchen to, so I guess it is. R’s preparing tamales with Azelma, but this one,” she says, nodding to indicate the sibling between them, “wasn’t into it.”

“It’s boring,” aforementioned sibling complains.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” she contends. The appeal for her is one hundred percent a misplaced sense of nostalgia from a time Gavroche cannot even recall and a desire to create something similar for her siblings that she has no interest in examining too closely. And speaking of examining things closely— “Anyway, Ferre,” she prompts, dipping her hand into Gavroche’s back pocket where the grad student’s phone has just disappeared, “what’re you doing for the holidays? You celebrate Christmas, right?” 

“I do,” he affirms, light from the approaching bus glinting off of his glasses. 

They load on, Éponine dropping a couple of coins for her brother and sliding Combeferre’s phone back into his coat pocket as they manoeuvre their way to their seats. Neither of her travelling companions seem any bit the wiser as they settle in, Gavroche beside her while Combeferre assumes his usual place across from her.

It’s strange, acknowledging Combeferre as having a ‘usual’ place in her life; nevertheless, it has undeniably happened, and Éponine can’t bring herself to mind.

“So, what do you do to celebrate Christmas?” Gavroche prods. It could be simple politeness or even genuine interest, but Éponine’s pretty sure he’s just realized that he is no longer in possession of his prize.

She could lecture him—she _should_ lecture him, even—but old habits die hard, and Combeferre serves as a very easy target for fingers itching for a familiar pastime. Better he do it on her watch than get caught in less forgiving circumstances.

“Oh, um.” Did Combeferre just ‘um’? “Well, most years I would celebrate it with my family—”

“Who’s that?” Gavroche interrupts, moving across to sit beside the man. “You got pictures?”

“Usually my sisters, my parents, and my paternal grandmother,” he starts, reaching into his pocket and frowning before trying the other coat pocket with more success. Éponine will have to be more mindful of that next time. “This year they decided to travel for the holidays, though, and I’m staying in town to assist my professor with some work, so it’ll be just me. There,” Combeferre says, apparently having come upon the photos he had been searching for.

It’s at least a consolation that Gavroche probably won’t try to steal the phone from Combeferre while he is actively holding it, but Éponine knows her brother is bold nevertheless and watches closely as he pulls the hand holding the phone closer to his face. “You got three sisters?”

“Yep,” Combeferre nods. “All older.”

“And a dog?”

“Labradoodle: my dad’s allergic.”

“Who’s looking after it?”

“Our neighbor’s watching Sirius.”

And no, there’s nothing Gavroche can realistically do with this information, but Éponine still doesn’t want to give him the opportunity to practice casing out a place. “Golden Boy won’t be in, then?”

Putting his phone back away in the pocket farther from Gavroche, Combeferre looks back up at Éponine. “Enjolras is visiting with his family for Christmas. He, Courf, and I all exchanged gifts before they left.”

“So…what are your plans?” 

“Making waffles?” He shrugs. “I hadn’t put much thought into it. My family’s out until the new year, so I was going to celebrate Kwanzaa with the neighbor across the hall from us, and of course I’ll be at Courfeyrac’s New Year’s party—”

“Of course.”

“—but Christmas day is more or less like any other day, excepting that Anat has banned me from coming to work.” 

“Anat being your boss?”

“Project lead, but yes.”

“You did save her ass with Hanukkah.”

“I’m not sure she was ever in need of saving.” A sly eyebrow raises at her. “Not sure any of my ‘damsels’ ever were.”

Damned fucking straight. “Which begs the question of why I still have my knightly entourage,” she teases, tilting her head.

The ribbing is met with another shrug. “You make good company.”

The words burn as they process, and rather than deal with what that could possibly mean she refocuses her attention to where Gavroche is currently trying to subtly extract Combeferre’s phone from the pocket on the far side of him. He’s doing an impressive job, but not nearly impressive enough.

“Oh, right, I’m off tomorrow, so don’t bother showing unless you want Samantha f—messing up your regular.” Without looking Éponine already knows Gavroche is rolling his eyes, but she’s already taken the opportunity to lift Combeferre’s phone back off of him, so soon enough he’ll have bigger things to worry about.

Combeferre’s brows pinch before unfurrowing. “Meetings.”

Éponine nods. “Means R has off too, so we can knuckle down and really get festive.”

“You mean watching ancient claymations and Love Island?” snorts Gavroche.

“And finishing tamales,” Éponine corrects, cheeks burning. “You know R and Zelma aren’t gonna be done tonight, and you’re gonna have no excuses tomorrow not to.”

“Ugh,” Gavroche groans dramatically, bumping into Combeferre. Just like that, the phone is back on the playing field.

Oblivious to this turn of events, the grad student continues. “Any particular Christmas Eve traditions? Do you all go to church?”

The suggestion earns another snort from Gavroche. “Only if we want to burn on-sight.”

“We weren’t raised in a particularly religious household.” To say the least. Also, if there is a God, she’s pretty sure They aren’t thrilled about the alms and donations her parents had them stealing most of their lives, so she’d rather not risk it. “The Magnons are though, aren’t they Gav?”

“Yeah,” he acknowledges begrudgingly. “They usually let me stay at home with their Nana though.”

“Your Nana,” she chastens.

“We don’t have a Nana.”

They are not getting into this in the middle of the street in front of polite company. “What about you, Ferre? Are you usually a church-mongerer?”

“My family is what is colloquially known as ‘Chreasters’: Christmas and Easter services only.” He shrugs. “There’s a little nostalgia there, but it’s nothing the right playlist wouldn’t fix. Going to my parents’ church without them would feel strange and…well, insincere.” 

“You don’t buy into it, then?” Éponine guesses.

Another shrug. “Couldn’t say if I do or don’t. Could be anything, could be nothing.”

“You won’t denounce it, but you won’t agree with it.”

“Exactly.”

“Hear that Gav?” she says, feinting a go at his pockets to see if he’ll show her where he’s hidden it this time. “You can respectfully express disagreement.”

Gavroche doesn’t give himself away. “I can also not be a little bitch and say what I mean. Anyway, isn’t there an ‘avenging angel’ blond who’d get a lot more out of this lecture than I would?”

For a moment she worries that Combeferre will be offended, but instead the remark seems to have surprised a laugh out of him. “You’re not altogether wrong, though in his defense he’s only that way when he’s well and truly riled up.”

“When R’s being a dick,” Gavroche correctly surmises.

“R would probably benefit from this lecture as well,” the grad student agrees.

The phone has been located and lifted by now, but she’s holding off on returning it to Combeferre until they’re closer to the building and she doesn’t have to worry about Gavroche making a last-second effort to get at it.

“So wait, you’re just gonna be moping around your apartment like a loser for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day?”

“Gav,” Éponine scolds even though that is exactly what it sounds like and 12 year-old her would not have hesitated for a second to say as much. Hell, 26 year-old her had been given a run for her money.

“It’s fine,” Combeferre nevertheless assures her. “I’d say that’s about the size of it.”

“Why don’t you celebrate with us?”

It’s not a bad idea, and Éponine might have suggested it herself if she hadn’t been worried over Gavroche not wanting to share their time together with an outsider or the fact that Combeferre has already been over every day for the past week.

It takes a moment for Éponine to realize that Combeferre hasn’t answered yet, and when she looks up she sees that he seems to be waiting for her approval; their discussion from Sunday comes back to her, and she gives a shrug. “Yeah, why not? We won’t have Christmas dinner or anything, kids have to be on the train back to their—” she can say this “—their parents’ before lunchtime, but we make up for it with a hell of a breakfast and the Hallmark Christmas Special.” 

The skin around Combeferre’s eyes crinkle as his expression softens. “I think I’d like that.”

They’re back at the complex now, and Éponine almost forgets to slip the phone back into Combeferre’s pocket before he leaves, their elbows brushing with an electric twitch that makes her forget if there has been much casual touch before now. The man blinks down at her in surprise, as if the brief contact had shocked him as well.

“Text me or R when you know when you’ll be over,” she tells him, more to break the moment than because she doubts his social etiquette.

“Will do,” he nods, and with that he’s on his way to _la Rana_ and she’s punching in the building code.

“I won,” Gavroche imperiously informs her as she lets him into the building.

“Oh? I’m pretty sure Ferre is walking away with his phone right now.”

“Yeah,” he concedes, voice still smug, “but I’m not the one who got caught.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Ferre!” Grantaire cheers as he opens the door.

“Grantaire, everyone,” Combeferre nods toward the respective parties, opening his arms to accept a hug from the masa-coated man before unbuttoning his peacoat.

“Look at you, all festive in your nerd-holiday apparel,” Éponine grins.

“Ah,” Combeferre smiles, tugging at the knit sweater. “My gift from Courfeyrac. I’m pretty sure he had it custom-made, which I know isn’t cheap, so it’d be a shame not to put it to use.”

“Also you love it,” Grantaire adds cheekily.

“I do,” the grad student admits. Two large reusable bags that Éponine hadn’t noticed before are raised. “Where can I put these?”

“You can leave your stuff in R’s room, we’ll figure out sleeping arrangements later.”

“Thank you, but I meant the gifts.”

“Gifts,” Éponine repeats flatly.

“You’ve welcomed me into your home for Christmas, it’s the least I could do.” At her responding stare, he assures, “Nothing big, just a show of my appreciation.”

“Right.” The inside of her cheeks pull in between her teeth for a moment before she finally answers. “Yeah, just uh. Under the tree is fine.”

“I’ll do it!” Gavroche rallies, springing from his seat before Grantaire intercepts him.

“Oh no you don’t,” her flatmate informs the child, personally escorting the bags to the tree and beginning to remove and arrange the contents. “Odd things have a tendency of being addressed to Gav when he gets to them before we do,” he explains to Combeferre.

Looking not the least bit embarrassed, Gavroche crosses his arms. “I maintain that my wife did go into labor.”

“That fateful, ten year-old night,” Éponine dryly reminisces. “Sit down. Where did Zelma run off to?”

“Coming!” she hears her sister call from the kitchenette, door swinging open to reveal Azelma hands full with a bowl each of poblano and cheese and looking every bit the domestic goddess that Éponine has and will never be.

Azelma looks much healthier than when she first left for the Magnons: she’s still a little thinner than Éponine thinks is healthy for her size, but she’s grown rounder where she used to be all angles, there’s color in her cheeks now, and most importantly she smiles much more readily than Éponine has ever seen before. Even now as she quietly fusses over arranging the fillings on the table while Grantaire and Gavroche’s ready banter flows, Éponine sees the soft vulnerability of open happiness that her sister would never have felt comfortable expressing even two years ago.

“Azelma, this is Combeferre. He’s gonna be joining us for Christmas this year.”

Éponine watches carefully as her sister’s eyes flit up and back down, features closing off a little as she straightens and wipes her hands on her apron. 

One is offered to Combeferre, and he shakes it politely. “Éponine tells me you’re an excellent cook.”

Éponine has no recollection of telling him any such thing, but it is true.

“Better than me,” Grantaire announces proudly, throwing an arm over Azelma’s shoulder. The mask cracks a little, and Éponine sees her sister beginning to relax again.

“Well come on, we have too many tamales to get done to be standing around looking pretty. Combeferre, there should be a folding chair in the closet. Zelma, wanna show Ferre how it’s done?”

A flicker of hesitation crosses her face, and Éponine is ready to shittily teach their guest herself and leave the steaming to Grantaire, but then Azelma’s expression steels and she nods, looking determined.

“Atta girl.” With Combeferre out of the room, Éponine adds in a low voice, “If you change your mind, just pat your shoulder or mention yams. We’ll figure it out.”

One of those really tender, soft looks of gratefulness comes in response, and Éponine is a half-second away from rounding the table to wrap her sister in a hug when Combeferre returns, Gavroche in tow, and they all resume their places around the corn husks.

By the time their yam-free evening of spackling, wrapping, and steaming tamales is over, it’s already dark, and Gavroche and Grantaire have both managed to bully Combeferre into letting them and Azelma borrow his car to drive around ‘Christmastown.’

“It’s not any one place,” she explains as she adds more soap to a stubbornly greasy mixing bowl. “We never had a tree when we were younger, so while our parents were—” relieving unsuspecting homes of their Christmas presents “—out, I’d always take them to walk around to look at the Christmas lights. R joined in on it while we were still in uni. Pretty sure he gets more excited about it than they do.”

Combeferre nods thoughtfully. “Sounds like a nice tradition.”

“‘Necessity is the mother of ingenuity,’ or whatever.” 

If Combeferre is aware that she got the quote wrong (she knows she did), he’s polite enough not to say anything about it. “How long do you think they’ll be out?”

“An hour?” There’s only one neighborhood with lights worth seeing this year, and it’s not too far off. In any case, the tamales need to rest at least thirty minutes before anyone eats them, and she knows for a fact that Gavroche and Grantaire have exactly No impulse control. “Thanks for helping, by the way.”

“My car can hardly fit the five of us comfortably, and I’d hate to leave you all alone with the dishes.”

“Sir Lancelot strikes again.”

“Lancelot could never,” Combeferre laughs, running his dishtowel over his plate.

There it is, that odd thrumming in her stomach. Her neck is burning strangely, and she’s sure her face is going pink. Frowning, she clears her throat. “You picked up making tamales pretty quickly.”

“Azelma’s a good teacher,” he shrugs. “They’re both great kids.”

After so many years of always being told what a troublemaker Gavroche is and hearing Azelma’s defense mechanisms praised as admirable, Éponine can’t help but feel a surge of pride. “Yeah, pretty much.” Handing the bowl to Combeferre to dry, she smirks. “Pretty sure Azelma’s all but planned your wedding, by the way.”

A thoughtful hum comes in response. “Your sister has good taste.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Éponine chuckles. “She also developed a crush on my last partner, and Montparnasse isn’t exactly ‘role model’ material.”

This time no answer comes, and a quick glance up shows that Combeferre is now frowning. She does a quick mental review of her words and fuck, right, admitting to having dated Montparnasse probably doesn’t reflect very well on her. “It was back in high school,” and freshman year of uni, and off-and-on again through until she finally was able to break from her parents, “I’m sure her standards are much higher now.” If Combeferre is any kind of litmus test, they certainly are.

Another “Hmm” is Combeferre’s only reaction, and Éponine decides it’s time to stop talking.

It is exactly 8:30 when Grantaire returns with the kids.

Éponine knows this because it’s the first thing Gavroche shouts when the door opens.

“So we have two and a half hours before Éponine has to watch her shitty reality tv show!”

“I—” she sputters, pointedly avoiding looking in Combeferre’s direction. “I do _not—”_

“You super-do,” contributes trait-R from behind the demon-child. “You made us stop in the middle of Home Alone last night to watch it.”

She scoffs. “Why would I—”

“Are we talking about Ép’s addiction to that Love Island show?” Azelma calls, the final Judas Iscariot bringing up the rear and closing the door behind her with a grin.

“I don’t suppose you know of a six-letter common descriptor for reality TV shows?” Judas Iscariot’s oft-forgotten son Jean Combeferre jibes.

“Show me the fucking puzzle, Combeferre.”

Throwing an arm around the Darth Sidious hiding in plain sight, Grantaire leans over the phone. “Starts with a T-R, ends with S-H-Y? Can I buy a vowel, Pat?”

“I hate all of you,” she decides with what she hopes is an air of finality. None of them appear to believe her. “R, grab the tamales and salsa verde. Let’s see what’s on.” 

As it would turn out, It’s a Wonderful Life is playing, followed by White Christmas. There’s no way they don’t all already know the plot—Eponine knows for a fact that she, Grantaire, and the kids have seen it for the past two years—but everyone eats their food in rapt silence nevertheless, waiting until ads to get up and fetch leftover baked goodies and throw popcorn at one another. The couch is only big enough for a snug three, which naturally means that Grantaire is laid out across it with Gavroche resting on his chest. Éponine and Azelma had started squeezed beside one another in the armchair, but between movies Azelma had apparently decided that the floor beside Combeferre was more comfortable. To his credit, Combeferre seems to take it in stride, politely engaging her in conversation over commercial breaks and maintaining what constitutes as a more than appropriate distance between the two of them.

At some point in the night Azelma must have found the remote, because at exactly 10:30, in the middle of a dance number, the channel changes to Éponine’s show. No one looks at her, and no one says anything for the next hour as they quietly watch what is truly one of the trashiest and most engaging pieces of television available on network cable.

“All right,” Grantaire grunts, pushing Gavroche off and stretching as he stands, “let’s figure out this bed situation.”

“Zelma and I, of course,” Éponine ticks off on her fingers, “and then…”

 _That’s right,_ she remembers, _Ferre’s too tall for the couch._

She wishes the kids and Combeferre weren’t there so she could talk this out bluntly with Grantaire. “Okay, so we have two beds and a couch. Ferre cannot be on the couch.”

“It really wasn’t tha—”

“Dude, no,” Grantaire affirms, tone indicating no room for argument.

“Grantaire and Gav need to be together, because—” because Gav still gets night terrors, and R’s better at handling those than she is “—Gav’s a menace. So you two can scram.”

“You heard the lady,” Grantaire grunts, picking Gavroche up and throwing him over his shoulder to carry out of the room. 

Tapping her chin thoughtfully as she watches Azelma carry her kit to the bathroom, Éponine considers the final three pieces of the puzzle. Combeferre can’t share with Azelma, but Combeferre can’t sleep on the couch. Éponine can share with Azelma but not Combeferre. Maybe if Éponine moved the armchair…

“I can sleep on the floor,” Combeferre interrupts.

“What? No. Don’t be stupid.”

“There’s no sense in putting both of you out of your beds for one person to be slightly more comfortable. It’s no problem at all.”

“Shut up, I almost have a _real_ answer.”

“Does it involve you sleeping in your own bed with your sister while I sleep on the floor?”

“I’m taking the couch,” Azelma announces, apparently having returned since deliberation began.

“Well wait, we're not—”

“My part in this is over. If you two want to continue Stubborn Bastarding, be my guest, but do it somewhere I’m not sleeping.” And with that, they are herded unceremoniously out of the living room and into Éponine’s bedroom.

Éponine blames Grantaire for this. 

“Um.”

“Um,” she echoes.

A knock sounds behind them, and she opens the door. “Here’s your things,” Grantaire says, holding out Combeferre’s backpack. He looks around the room. “You gonna need more blankets?”

“No,” Éponine replies at the same time as Combeferre answers, “Yes, please.”

An eyebrow raised, Grantaire’s eyes flit back and forth between them. “I’ll just get those in case you change your mind.”

Éponine glares at Combeferre until Grantaire returns with their guest comforters and pillows, at which point her flatmate becomes the focal point of her ire. 

“Look, at least he doesn’t hog the bl—”

“Get out.”

“Okay.”

The door shuts behind him, and she turns to see Combeferre already pulling out two of the comforters and a pillow. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Well, we already established that I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“Like hell you aren’t. You’re our guest. I’ll take the floor.”

“I’m sleeping on the floor either way, you may as well sleep in your bed.”

“It’s not my problem if you want to make yourself pointlessly uncomfortable when there is a bed in the same room as you that you’re refusing to use.”

An exasperated sigh sounds. “You are impossible.”

“My teachers certainly seemed to think so.”

Combeferre leaves the room to change, and Éponine locks the door behind him to prevent any unwanted intrusions as she does the same. His makeshift bed is on the far side of the room, so she drags it over to her side and hurries so that she’s changed and the door is unlocked before he returns.

The full force of his Unimpressed Face hits like a train, which might matter slightly more if she cared in the least.

“The bed would probably be pretty comfortable, huh?” she taunts.

“Probably. Better than a floor bed, even,” he agrees pointedly.

“It is,” she assures, “which is why I’m offering it to you, my guest.”

“Which is why I, a guest, am encouraging my host to sleep in her own bed.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Me neither,” he tells her, picking up the remaining pillow and blankets and returning to the far side of her bed.

They both lay on the floor in silence for what could be minutes or hours until Éponine finally caves. “Is one of us going to turn out the lights, or?”

At first she thinks Combeferre might already be asleep, but then it comes: “You’re closer.”

There’s something about the sheer childishness of the response that tugs the corner of her mouth in amusement. If he won’t take the bed, at least she can do this.

She returns to her floor bed, irritation gone entirely by the time she does.

Minutes come and go before a voice calls out softly in the dark. “Ép? Are you still awake?”

“Yeah?”

“May I—what is the situation with you and your siblings?”

Ah. Well, it was bound to come up eventually. “Parents got nailed, kids got taken away.”

“When was that?”

Good question: she feels like her world still comes down to that moment two years ago. “Second year of uni, I guess? So around...six years ago?”

“They were both adopted by the same family?”

“All,” she corrects, because it matters. “They were all adopted. There’s two more.”

Even if they were beside one another, it’d be too dark to see what Combeferre’s reaction is. “That’s extremely lucky.”

“Yeah,” she agrees.

“Why don’t I ever see the other two?”

Éponine sighs. “They were young. Born after I left.”

“I see.”

It’s unlikely he does, but that’s okay. 

“And their parents still let you see them?”

“Gav and Zelma, yeah.” A hollow laugh escapes her. “They’re not crazy about me.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“You’re too nice.” A lump is forming in her throat, giant and painful, and she swallows it down. She doesn’t want to think about her siblings’ perfect moms and their perfect house and their perfect lives without her anymore. “Tell me about you. What are you working on in your lab?”

“You—it’s not all that interesting.” 

The silence looms expectantly between them. “I’m waiting.”

She hears him sigh, but nevertheless he does begin speaking. “Dr. Feldman and I have been trying to test out a prototype for a new lithium-ion battery that uses manganese in place of cobalt or nickel to store the power. We’ve been recording the retention over time as well as in different conditions such as extreme heat or cold, and in the meantime we’ve also been playing with different designs. If we can get this to work, we’re also interested in trying our hands at sodium-ion batteries, which is. Even if we have the technology, it’s going to be years until it is market-viable, much less mass-produced and available to the average consumer on a mass scale, but at least we’ll have it instead of having to scramble when the fucking pigheaded billionaires who run the global market realize that the world is crumbling around us and our resources are running out and the earth isn’t dying, it’s only the earth as we know it, an earth that can sustain human life, it’ll keep existing long after we kill ourselves off with our own greed, and—”

“Sorry, can you say that again?”

Combeferre seems to have realized himself, clearing his throat sheepishly. “Erm. We’re testing a prototype for a manganese lithiu—”

“No, no, after that. The pigheaded billionaires?”

“Oh, um. Well, when they realize that the world is continuing to die around us—”

“No, no, I understood you, I’m not stupid.”

“Ahh,” he says, finally seeming to realize what she’s getting at. “‘Fucking pigheaded billionaires’?”

Something remarkably close to a giggle escapes her. “You said the fuck-word.”

“I’ve been known to say it from time to time.”

“Is that how you nearly made Marius shit his trousers all those years ago?”

There is definitely smug pride in Combeferre’s voice when he responds. “Oh no, that was the other f-word.”

“Hey Ferre?” she says, some time that feels like a lifetime later.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you took it upon yourself to be my Gawain. You’re superfluous, for sure, but,” a yawn interrupts her, “it’s been nice, just. Talking. Having you around.”

“I’m glad you’ve allowed me the play the part,” he answers, something in his voice extremely soft. 

It’s quiet again, and Éponine is sure that her guest has fallen asleep when— 

“It is possible that I would pass for a suitable Lancelot.”

Whatever the hell _that_ means. “You’re not making any sense. Go to sleep.”

“Okay.” A rustling of fabric against fabric fills the air. “Good night, Guinevere.”

“G’night, Ferre.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never in my life seen Love Island and have no basis to rip it on, I just chose an arbitrary reality TV show.
> 
> Thanks to [SureFireShore](http://surefireshore.tumblr.com) for pointing me in the direction of this great [starter guide](http://newscenter.lbl.gov/2019/12/11/a-peek-into-the-battery-technology-pipeline/) for reading about advancements in renewable energy storage!


	7. Chapter 7

Before Éponine even opens her eyes, the scent of freshly cooked breakfast has already filled the apartment. 

Sitting up proves to be the wrong way to start the day. Really, having a corporeal form: she’s slept on the floor plenty of times before, but she’s either going soft or getting old because she has no recollection of all of the aches and pains that evidently accompany it.

Grantaire proves unsympathetic, to say the least.

“Unless our dear Morpheus physically knocked you out with a sledgehammer, I’m gonna say that’s on you. Dumbass.”

“Hey,” she reprimands, dropping into one of the chairs around the table and reaching for a _pão de queijo._ “I’m fragile, you bitch.” Taking a bite of the roll, she scans the room. “Where’re the kids?”

“Gav’s still out, and Zelma’s helping with breakfast.”

Éponine’s lips press in a tight line. “Bad night?”

“What? Oh, no, he just didn’t want to go to sleep. We ended up watching Youtube until he crashed, but it took a lot of videos.”

“We’ll wake him when everything’s done, then,” she nods. “And where’s our guest this fine morning?” When she’d finally coaxed herself to an upright position, the space on the other side of her bed had already been vacated, blankets folded in a neat stack in his wake. There’s no reason for it to feel like a one-night stand, but then, she’s used to being the one doing the leaving.

“In the kitchen. He’s taken it upon himself to whip up some waffles.” Before Grantaire can even finish the sentence, Éponine is already on her feet.

“You,” she informs Combeferre as she pushes into the kitchen, “are the worst guest ever.”

Stirring batter at the counter beside him, Éponine sees Azelma’s eyebrows raise in obvious amusement, but her mouth remains blessedly shut.

“On the contrary,” Combeferre smirks, “Grantaire tells me I’m a dream.”

“The last dream R remembered involved Plato removing his toenails and taunting him for not being a man anymore.”

“A slightly better dream.”

“Get out of my kitchen.” Despite her best efforts, Éponine feels a grin breaking across her face, and it is definitely cutting into her gravitas.

“The waffles are nearly done.”

“Where did you even get a waffle iron from?”

“I found it in the hall closet!” Azelma volunteers.

“Do you take your waffles with peanut butter as well?” Combeferre asks conversationally, already reaching for the cupboard above the stove with an ease that her 5-foot frame has never known.

“She does,” Azelma informs him, ladling more batter over the iron. 

A plate stacked high with waffles and the jar of peanut butter are pressed into her hands. “We’ve got things under control in here,” he assures her with a gentle smile. “Go eat.”

She holds the look another beat, but the insistence in his expression doesn’t falter. Sighing, she accepts the proffered food and turns back into the main room.

“Aw, did intimidating The Greatest Guest of All Time not work out for you?” Grantaire taunts, lower lip sticking out.

“Shut up.”

“By the way, Azelma,” Combeferre starts once breakfast has been basically cleaned up and they’re finally settled down around the tree, “I meant to ask before: how did you find the couch last night?”

A tentative smile emerges. “Had a good night.”

“Did you sleep tight?” prods Combeferre.

“The bed bugs definitely didn’t bite,” Gavroche chimes in, grinning in comfortable camaraderie.

Is this some kind of gen Z meme?

At least Grantaire seems to get her. “I think this is what a happy childhood looks like,” he stage-whispers.

“Seem fake but okay.” A quick glance at her watch tells Éponine that they are already running behind. “All right, let’s get opening: at this rate you’re gonna be stuck holding wrapping paper on the train.”

The kids require no further prodding as the stack of gifts that has been in place since they arrived sustains its first round of assault, followed in quick succession by second, third, and fourth volleys, the gifts becoming increasingly obscured behind the mounting layers of crinkled wrapping paper. Éponine and Grantaire had had to buy gifts throughout the year with prayers to minor deities that her siblings’ moms wouldn’t beat them to the punch; this year they lucked out, their only double-purchase returned shortly months ago with a crumpled receipt from their junk drawer. Stressful as the budgeting had been, it is entirely worth it to see Gavroche and Azelma light up as they open their gifts to discover all of the things that they’d mentioned in over the past year appear like lost treasures.

A great show is made out of Éponine and Grantaire receiving their presents from the kids as well, tearing out tissue paper to see what the Magnons had deemed acceptable to give. It’s giftcards again, but this year the kids must have been given free reign over wrapping because Éponine’s is the innermost of seven boxes (and a bag), and Grantaire’s is located squarely inside of a potato.

“What did Santa bring you, Gav?” Combeferre prompts. Their personal Tasmanian Devil had been slightly less interested in the spectacle of opening presents and significantly more invested in being able to play with and use them as quickly as possible.

“Jack shit,” the middle schooler responds noncommittally, turning a pocket knife over in his hands for examination.

“Gav,” Azelma hisses, elbowing him.

Rather than offended, Combeferre appears intrigued. “How do you figure?” 

“Well, Santa delivers presents to all the good boys and girls, right?”

“I’m tracking.”

“I’m not a boy or a girl, and I definitely haven’t been good this year,” Gavroche informs him.

“I see.”

A flippant shrug follows. “Also Santa doesn’t exist.”

“Gav,” Éponine scolds.

“What? We all know.”

Behind his camera, Grantaire cackles. _Worst fucking flatmate ever._

“Just don’t pull that in front of your brothers. Or your parents.”

“Duh,” Gavroche responds with a roll of his eyes.

“Hey, Ferre, aren’t you gonna open your presents?” asks Azelma, extending a box to him.

Their guest appears taken aback. “I—I wasn’t aware I had any.” 

“What, you thought we’d invite you to watch us open gifts without getting you any?” Grantaire grins. “As if.”

“You may be the worst guest ever, but that doesn’t mean we’re allowed to be the worst hosts.” Éponine takes the gift from Azelma’s still-outstretched hands and tosses it into Combeferre’s lap. “Merry Christmas.”

 _“Io Saturnalia,”_ adds Grantaire.

 _“Io Saturnalia,”_ Combeferre repeats softly, still staring uncomprehendingly at the box. Even in opening presents, Combeferre works methodically and carefully, and it’s nearly a minute before the package is finally opened. “Is this—”

“Your very own _sigillarii,”_ her flatmate grins. “You were kind of a last-minute addition, so I couldn’t do terracotta like everyone else’s, but wax is also traditional, so.”

“You carved me a Mandalorian wax doll,” Combeferre clarifies, stunned, “in the twenty-four hours since I was invited to join you?”

“Time isn’t real.” Their guest continues staring at Grantaire until, and Éponine sees watches as her flatmate’s countenance turns sly. “I mean, if you don’t like it I can melt i—”

“Don’t you dare.” 

The snap earns a chuckle from the sculptor. “Play your cards right and there might even be a baby Yoda in it for you next year.”

“Oh no there won’t,” Éponine objects. “No way Worst Guest Ever is allowed to keep making us look bad.”

“Technically, I was just upholding the spirit of Saturnalia,” Combeferre contends. “The guest looks after the host.”

 _“Io Saturnalia!”_ sings Grantaire gleefully in a terrible falsetto. _“Hodie igitur dominus noster non es!”_

“Jesus Christ, I thought we were finished with that last year,” Éponine groans, burying her face in her hands.

“You know you missed it.”

“I did not.”

“Liar.”

“Doesn’t Ferre have more presents?”

“We can do both.” In direct contradiction to his point, Grantaire manages to corral Gavroche and Azelma into singing along, because Of Course Gavroche doesn’t know his own birthday half the time but still remembers every word to The Worst Song Ever.

“All right, all right, we get it,” Éponine shouts over them, grabbing the gift she’d wrapped for Combeferre the previous morning. “Here.”

“Thank you.” The wrapping paper falls away from Combeferre’s gift much more quickly this time than Grantaire’s had, mostly because Éponine’s attempts at wrapping gifts are usually held together with a stern look and a prayer. 

“It’s not a hand-carved nerd reference or anything,” she explains, suddenly feeling self-conscious about the last-second gift, “but I figured you might like it.”

The pages of the crossword book fan under Combeferre’s thumb as he flips through, scanning the puzzles and nodding. “I don’t think I’ve done any of these before.”

Oh shit, she hadn’t even considered that. Go her. “Slightly easier than carrying all of those newspaper sections around.”

“Definitely.” His eyes meet hers. “Thank you, Éponine.”

“Eh, don’t mention it.” 

“There should be something for you too,” Combeferre says, attention turning toward the base of the tree. “It may have gotten lost in the mess, it’s rather small.”

A quick hunt proceeds, and half of the paper is midair before Éponine can even think to turn it into an excuse to get a head-start on clean-up.

“Found it!” calls Gavroche triumphantly, producing a newspaper-wrapped package no larger than the palm of his hand.

“Non-denominational,” she comments with an amused raise of her eyebrow.

A dry smirk crosses his face. “They were out of Saturnalia-themed.”

“The disrespect.” The tape comes up easily under her fingers, paper falling away to reveal gold plastic. “Oh my God.”

The dollar store police (POLCIE) badge looks terrible even with mid-morning light glinting off of it: the paint is already chipping, the sticker was applied upside-down before it was packaged, and she’s fairly certain that most places know better than to have a 69th precinct.

“It’s perfect,” she whispers, trying desperately not to draw attention from where the other three have become engrossed in helping Azelma assemble a lap loom.

“Since you’re your own honorary force…” The thought trails off with a shrug. “Of course, I was also prepared for it backfire entirely.”

“I know your opinion on the pigs, we’re good.”

“Back-up plan was water gun.”

She’s choking on air before she can stop herself, drawing concerned looks from Grantaire and her siblings while Combeferre continues smiling smugly— _the bastard._

“You okay?” her flatmate checks warily.

“Just fine,” she answers, pounding at her chest in between sneaking unsubtle glares in Combeferre’s direction. If he notices, he doesn’t seem to care. “We about done opening presents, then?” she asks once she has mostly regained her ability to speak.

“I should say so,” Grantaire nods, examining the room. “Everything from me and you, at any rate.”

“We’ll open any stragglers as we go,” Éponine decides as she looks at her watch. Opening presents went on longer than planned. “Think you all can manage to get this cleaned up without breaking into another unholy chorus of _libertus sum_ and _meus pileum?”_

“Never!” Gavroche jeers, falling backward to make a snow angel equivalent in their living room as Azelma and Grantaire begin grabbing up handfuls of wrapping through unstifled laughter.

Moving down to join them, it takes a moment for Éponine to realize that Combeferre is still frozen on the couch. “You all right?”

“You.” He blinks at her. “You speak Latin with a Spanish accent.”

Ah fuck. Her English is more or less unaccented, and it’s not like she knows much Latin anyway—only enough to be a bitch to Grantaire when she wants to be and tell people to get skull-fucked; still, these are bits and pieces she pointedly does not use in front of anyone who would notice or care. “Probably R’s fault,” she scowls, continuing to gather debris and ignoring the burn of her face.

“I should hope that Combeferre can differentiate Spanish and Portuguese accents,” Grantaire interjects, “though really, don’t we all speak accented Latin? Of course, the Roman Catholic church takes it a step further and pronounces the Vs like Vs, which is just weird, but let’s say for the sake of argument that Italian is the closest we have in the modern era—”

Éponine has already tuned out, pausing once she’s sure that everyone (including Combeferre) is too busy stuffing paper into bags to notice her grabbing the badge and pinning it to her shoulder for safe-keeping.

They’re fucking late.

It was an oversight—a stupid and predictable one—not to have had the kids pack up last night, or at least before breakfast. Still, especially with their gifts (she should have stopped the assembly of the loom, that was bound for problems) everything probably would have had to be repacked anyhow.

“Aaaaaand we’ve missed the bus,” Éponine announces, watching it pull past their building, blithely unaware that they were ever supposed to catch it.

“We’ll figure something out, no worries.”

There _are_ worries, and Grantaire knows this: their current arrangement with the Magnons is tentative at best, and if she has to call them to let them know that their children won’t be back in time for their giant family dinner-whatever-thing she loses the little she has already fought to gain.

“It’d be a tight squeeze, but we could take my car.”

She turns to face Combeferre, baffled. 

“It won’t be a leisure trip, but—” he continues.

“There’s five of us plus baggage.” Of all kinds.

“I have trunk space.”

“I thought you said that the five of us wouldn’t fit.”

“Wouldn’t _comfortably_ fit,” he clarifies. Her skepticism must show because he continues. “We have previously jammed six full-grown Amis into Hoppy. Only one of them was unconscious.”

“It was me,” Grantaire volunteers.

“I am not even going to pretend that I’m surprised.” Chewing the inside of her lip, she glances back up to Combeferre. “Fine.” The grad student smiles at her like she’s the one doing him the favor, which she decides she doesn’t like. “Help me move the kids’ crap.”

She waits until Combeferre has left the room to raise an eyebrow at Grantaire, hoisting a trash bag over her shoulder. “Was it at least a noble unconsciousness?”

“Not even remotely.”

[15.19] **glasses nerd:** behold (Latin), 4 letters

According to her phone, she has been staring at the text for four minutes, but Éponine still can’t make sense of it: there is no way Combeferre, Giant Nerd Extraordinaire, doesn’t know one of the most basic Latin words anyone can learn and is asking her not two hours after dropping her and Grantaire back off at their flat. Even if he didn’t know, it’s a quick translation away, or if he’s being a real purist he could at least ask Grantaire. Why would he ask Éponine?

More importantly, why doesn’t she feel remotely irritated by it?

It’s been happening a lot lately: with Combeferre, social interaction hasn’t been the chore it usually feels; she’s been overthinking her actions and words and caring literally at all about his opinion of her; and then there’s that weird reaction she’s been having when he does laugh at something, uninhibited and open and unexpected and— 

Oh. 

Oh _no._

No no no no no, this can’t be happening—this isn’t allowed to happen, not again. Marius had been awful _(embarrassing)_ enough, she’s a Goddamned adult now and absolutely refuses to go mooning over anyone again, especially not Combeferre.

The horrifying similarities are already making themselves plain in her mind’s eye as the panic settles in: extremely smart, painfully naive, entirely too nice for their own good, and perfect opposites to Éponine in every conceivable way. In short, nothing suited for her: she’d thought she’d made her peace with this in uni.

In many ways Combeferre is so much worse, though: Marius had just been chasing after the first fleeting spark of kindness that had passed through her life. Since then, she’s at least been able to come to terms with the fact that she and Marius operate on entirely different wavelengths, that his brand of naivety does annoy her in doses that extend past fifteen minutes, and that ultimately he is oblivious to anything that isn’t happening within a meter of him.

No, Combeferre follows having met actually decent people whose presence she can almost admit to enjoying. He is perceptive and respected and acknowledges her existence without any ulterior motives, and _fuck_ is that a low bar, but bitches love playing limbo.

Hell, she hasn’t even been in a relationship that counts since…well, since she broke up with Montparnasse in high school to chase Marius, really. A fuck-buddy here, one-night stand there…nothing more meaningful than a basic pick-up. They’re impersonal, easy—everything that hooking up with Combeferre wouldn’t be. 

Does Combeferre even do hook-ups?

It would be poorly advised either way, but if he does he certainly keeps it to himself. She can’t recall any talk of partners past or present either, nor regarding if he’s even into physical or romantic involvements with people. Not that she’s ever asked, but if there was anything she’s sure she would have heard about it from Joly during their, Bossuet, and Grantaire’s weekly brunch dates, usually hosted (loudly) in their living room.

“Hey, I’m heading out,” Grantaire waves as he passes through. “Anything you need?”

“Mm? Oh, nah. Take care.”

It’s probably a testament to how in-her-head she truly is that she doesn’t realize that her flatmate hasn’t left yet until she feels him sit down beside her. “You all right?”

“I—” The lie is on the tip of her tongue, but something makes her swallow it back. “Been better.”

A humming sound comes in response. “You gonna be okay if I leave for my shift?”

Yes. Obviously. What could possibly go wrong? She handled her entire childhood without Grantaire and a fair amount of the Marius situation, except that she really didn’t manage the Marius situation at all until Grantaire was in her life to show her (model, honestly) how pathetic she looked and get smashed with her on their shitty couch on particularly rough nights.

“Took too long, I’m calling off,” he announces, dropping his shit to the floor and standing decisively. “Fetching our good friends Johnnie, Monty, Benjamin, and Jerrold.”

“You’re a stupidass,” she tells him when he finally returns, tossing her a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and sliding a dvd into the player. “An hour before a Christmas shift? No one’ll fill it.”

“True,” he tells her, falling on the couch beside her and pulling off the lid to his own pint, “which is why I reminded Boss-man that xe spent more on wages and electricity last year than xe made. Not to mention that you don’t get happy drunks in bars on Christmas.”

“Point.”

“So,” he continues, splashing some Black Label into the bottom of two glasses, “we gonna talk about it?”

If she says ‘no’ she knows Grantaire’ll lay off, if only because he has learned by now that it’d be a fruitless exercise not to, but he’s the one who more or less held her hand through the embarrassment that was her pathetic crush on Pontmercy: not like she can embarrass herself any further. “New Marius.”

“Fuck.” 

The affirmation is all the prompting she needs to throw back the whiskey in unison with her flatmate.

There’s hesitation before Grantaire finally dares ask the question she knows is coming. “New Marius got a name?”

“Unfortunately.”

It’s a non-answer, and after eight years of friendship she’s confident Grantaire can recognize one when he hears it. The opening credits are already playing, and Éponine still hasn’t decided how much she wants to say, if anything.

“Why do you keep hanging around Angelface? I mean, you already know nothing’s ever gonna come of it.” It’s a sensitive subject, but she has some bruises of her own to press into, and she knows Grantaire will forgive her.

A sigh. “I guess…I mean, yeah, it’s never gonna happen, but he’s—I mean. I don’t just stick around hoping he’ll be desperate enough to turn to me, y’know? I was—fuck, obsessed? Gods that’s depressing, but more or less accurate—yeah, obsessed with like. Him. What he stands for and the person he is and stuff. I don’t think he’d even still be that person to me if we did shack up on some one-off kind of night, y’feel?

“And I mean, it’s that, but also he as a person is just. He’s someone I want in my life. Like, yeah, I’m trying to be healthier about that shit, and if I can’t handle it then I’m out, you and I have already talked about that, but.” Grantaire pauses to shrug. “He’s worth it, y’know? To have in my life. If I can handle it, find a way to exist in that light without perishing or whatever, I think that’s worth trying to make it work.”

Éponine takes a long draw from her freshly-filled glass as she turns the information over, swishing the burning liquid around in her mouth until it’s body-temperature and diluted with spit and gross. “Fucking gay.”

The comment’s met with a dry chuckle. “I guess so,” he agrees, following with his own sip. “Bi erasure, though.”

“Downright homophobic of me.”

“Don’t think that badge’ll save you when the Queer Police come breaking down our door for your transgressions.”

Her smile falters, hand falling automatically to where the shitty pin Combeferre had given her that morning remains. At long last, she sighs. “It’s Combeferre.”

Grantaire is quiet for a long, uncharacteristic moment before refilling both of their glasses, clinking his to hers with an emphatic, _“Fuck.”_

Éponine was right: Gawain does get killed by the fucking rabbit.

“Honestly, how dare he?” she says aloud.

“It’s a pretty feisty rabbit,” Grantaire shrugs. “It’s only natural that the bravest would fall at its lucky, lucky feet.”

“Not the knights, motherfucking Combeferre.”

“Ah. Clearly.” Depositing his spoon back into what has to be by now half-melted ice cream, Grantaire falls back into the sofa. “Which, like, obviously _I_ understand, but supposing there was an agent listening in and we wanted to clarify for them—”

Rolling her eyes, she sighs. There’s no point in pausing the movie, she and Grantaire have seen it at least one hundred times between the two of them. “First time Combeferre showed up to walk me home I called him a white knight, and it just became this thing where I’m Guinevere and he’s Gawain.”

“So…you guys have an inside joke?”

This is going nowhere good no time fast. “Yeah?”

“Based on Arthurian legend?”

Another sigh comes. “I guess?”

The answer comes as a stage-whisper: “Fucking _gay.”_

“Bi erasure.”

“Queer as fock.”

“Touché.” The previous night returns to her. “You know Arthurian legend shit, though, right?”

The look she receives in response reminds her exactly who she’s sitting next to.

“Oh, shut up. Yeah, no, so he said something weird last night? About finally being Lancelot or maybe being him? I forget, but before that any time I called him it he always corrected me, so I—what?”

Grantaire has been staring at her with a deadpan expression for the past ten seconds, which means he thinks it’s obvious, which means it either actually is obvious or is so obscure that only Grantaire would think it’s obvious. And maybe Combeferre. “You do realize that Lancelot and Guinevere canonically have the hots for each other, right?”

Just him then. “Why in the fuck do you think anyone who isn’t you would know that?”

“It’s not exactly ‘deep lore,’” Grantaire scoffs with a roll of his eyes. “I mean, technically it was Chrétien’s reworking of Caradoc’s original, but like. It’s pretty widely-accepted.”

Éponine’s mind is spinning, and she’s pretty sure it isn’t the alcohol. “So you’re saying that that was, what, Combeferre’s way of flirting?” Her head shakes as she scoffs unbelievingly. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“You have spoken with Combeferre, like, ever, correct?”

She has. She has, and while she has never put an enormous amount of thought into Combeferre’s Wooing Practices before approximately sixty minutes ago, it does strike her now as awfully on-brand for him.

“Like, knowing him, he probably didn’t expect you to get it—”

“Begging the question of why you did.”

“—so you can keep playing dumb if you want. Like, it is a lot to think about. I think Ferre’s great, obviously, but…” he trails.

She knows exactly what he’s trying to say: but Marius left her pretty fucked up, and they never even dated; but it’s been a grand total of a week since she started spending any real time with Combeferre and an entire hour since she realized she likes him; but her life is finally in some semblance of order, and she’s been saying for the past four years that she has no interest in pursuing an actual romantic relationship again.

“Yeah. I got you.”

“It’s up to you, though.”

Turning her attention back to the animated dragon onscreen, she frowns: it is up to her, and somehow that makes the situation that much worse.

 _Definitely Grantaire’s fault,_ she decides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're both bi and taking the piss.
> 
> "Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite," is a common adage for American parents to tell their children. Éponine and Grantaire, having grown up in households that weren't super fuzzy warm/immigrant parents with different cultural backgrounds, have never heard this in their lives.
> 
> [Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n5uG6zaDaIM)'s the ridiculous Saturnalia song they were singing. I'll be upfront: I don't think you'll be hearing it on your local radio station anytime soon. Grantaire mostly learned it, as with most things, out of spite.


	8. Chapter 8

The night before Éponine had managed to drag herself to bed before falling asleep, and as she wakes she is cognizant enough to be grateful for that fraction of foresight on her part: her body only barely aches, and it also means she doesn’t need to move for hours. In fact, given that it’s Thursday, she doesn’t have to move until tomorrow if she doesn’t want to.

That would mean being alone with her thoughts for upwards of thirty hours, though, which really isn’t an option.

Trudging into the kitchen, Éponine blearily opens the fridge to dig out some leftover tamales to throw in the microwave. Her hand moves automatically toward the vegetarian ones that had been made especially for Azelma and their other vegetarian guest before pointedly diverting to pork. It suddenly feels very important that she takes this arbitrary stand.

Someone moved their coffee beans to somewhere that makes some actual Goddamned sense, too, which naturally means that she needs to move them back to their original place, and for good measure the waffle iron is tossed back into the closet with no regard for the supposed ‘pre-existing order’ that she is growing more convinced by the day only exists in the sense of chaos being its own order. Which is fine by her.

Except it isn’t.

As she sits at the breakfast bar nursing her coffee and playing with what’s left of her tamales (she really had wanted the poblano and cheese, and she’s nearing the point where she’ll admit it to herself), she decides that she’s going to have to bring at least one piece of chaos into order: the closet or her life. The closet, despite its collars (again, plural), is starting to seem preferable, but then she hears a massive crash from its general direction and dejectedly accepts that her life’s problems may be slightly more surmountable. 

It’s a very straightforward question, now that it’s daylight and she’s caffeinated: does she want to date Combeferre? It remains possible that Combeferre is in the same position as her, liking her without wanting to be with her, but he’d accepted all of the extracurricular invitations over the past week, so for the sake of being a functioning human being and not an overly-angsty twit, she supposes that he does.

It’s true, she had said—multiple times, loudly and to a variety of audiences—that she is uninterested in pursuing a romantic relationship. But also…she doesn’t have to stay that way, right? Things can change. Like, it might be kind of embarrassing, but in her own self-interest, she is allowed to change her mind. That’s a thing she can do.

So that’s one roadblock down.

Does she have time for a relationship? At first the answer seems obvious, an emphatic ‘no,’ but then she thinks over the past week, and all told, if they were to continue more or less as they have been, it wouldn’t be the worst. It’s something she’d have to communicate, for sure, but if dating Combeferre just meant continuing this intentional procedure of texting and spending time with one another and maybe doing the occasional weekend, well, that wouldn’t be so bad. Especially if it also involves holding hands and making out and generally not feeling guilty for having feelings for him.

Okay, so that’s that figured out.

Ultimately, what it comes down to now is if it’s going to be another Marius situation, where her feelings aren’t for Combeferre so much as the idea of Combeferre. Éponine has seen more of the good that is in the world since then, is able to stand on her own two feet, and is in a situation where it doesn’t feel so much like walking toward the light at the end of the tunnel as it does having a hiking companion. 

(Blegh.)

Still, there’s no way of knowing unless she takes a chance.

“Éponine?”

She could have given Combeferre a heads-up, but he didn’t tell her before showing up to her work that first day either. Way she sees it, they’re square. “Hey.”

“What’re you doing here?”

‘Here,’ of course, being the on-campus lab. _Of course._ “Figured you might want some company home. Y’know, the night being dark and full of strangers.”

“It’s just after five.”

“It’s also winter. You telling me public transit gets you home before 5:30?”

“Hardly.” His deadpan shifts to a smirk. “All right, Guinivere the Brave, lead the way.”

It doesn’t feel quite like going home from the café: for one thing, it’s still daylight. For another, she doesn’t have exhaustion forged deep in her bones, brain leaden from consecutive hours of human interaction. 

Thirdly, she’s never had an ulterior motive.

Her hands are almost in her coat pockets before she jerks them away, settling for threading the gloved thumbs through her belt loops. “So. How’re the batteries going?”

His eyebrows raise in surprise before his expression settles again. “Right, I—yes, well. Nothing big. Retention’s starting to fall off, which isn’t altogether unexpected. The current prototype is doing much better than we had hoped, too, but we’re still a ways off from reliably reaching the same levels of retention as their cobalt-based counterparts. It’s coming along, though.”

“That’s good,” she nods. “Anat miss you?”

For some reason this seems to surprise a laugh out of him. “Yes, actually. Everyone else was in, so I can’t imagine that she was lonely, but then, Dr Feldman is a bit of a mother hen to all of us.”

“None of the others do Christmas?”

“Most of the people in our department who do left once the term ended so they could spend the holidays at home.”

She hums as they come to a halt at the bus stop. “Get a chance to talk with your family yesterday?”

“I did,” he smiles. “We facetimed, which was nice. Lots of connection problems, though, so I think we’re just sending photos for Kwanzaa.”

Oh shit, right, Éponine had forgotten. “That starts today, right?”

“It does.”

She wants to ask more about it, but of course today is the day that she actually gets to a bus stop within a reasonable amount of time of the bus showing up. The one that goes from campus in the direction of Combeferre’s flat at this time of the day actually has people on it—not so many that they’re crushed, but literally any is more than Éponine is interested in having listen in on any conversation she might have that extends beyond dry banter.

The following twenty-five minutes are spent alternating between eavesdropping on the relationship problems of the middle-aged woman in front of her (he’s definitely cheating, it’s probably with the friend who’s listening, and she should absolutely leave both of them in the dust) and the trio of nerds sitting behind Combeferre discussing lore in some desktop game she knows only by name. Both are equally fascinating.

Combeferre is waiting for her when she gets off (probably because with his freakishly long legs it’d take two and a half steps to get there without her, the thousand leagues boots-footed freak), and she doesn’t hesitate to start toward his building without him. The sun is already low on the horizon, hidden behind towering buildings, and above them the sky is a brilliant purple. The streetlights probably have a timer to turn on, though she has no idea when it’s set to here.

“So, who were you listening to?” she asks.

“Older woman on the phone in front of me. Apparently her granddaughter came out as trans at her birthday party last month.”

“How was Grandma taking that?”

“Confused, but she had the right spirit. Lots of questions.”

“That’s good. I’m surprised you weren’t listening to the group behind you.”

“Their picks, strategies, and waifus were all trash.”

Her laugh bursts forth so suddenly that Éponine has to stop briefly, rubbing her hands over her face as she recovers. When she looks up, Combeferre appears to be going for ‘dignified’ but has definitely landed his ass in ‘smug,’ which seems acceptable given the circumstances. Even as they begin moving, though, she sees that his eyes stay on her face a little longer than normal, a softness in his look that is usually reserved for when he’s watching Courfeyrac and Engineblock bicker over something uncharacteristically silly and harmless. It bolsters Éponine’s confidence in Grantaire’s supposition and her plan, and she begins moving forward again.

“Do you have a waifu, then? Does your waifu have some sort of rivalry with theirs?”

The question is met with a huffed laugh. “I don’t need a waifu to know trash when I see it.”

 _“Ice_ cold.”

“I call them like I see them.”

The rest of the walk continues in comfortable silence until they’re nearly at the doorway to Combeferre’s building.

“By the way, Ferre.” Her heartrate is picking up pace as the words leave her mouth, edging steadily closer to the point of no return. “I, uh. I’ve been working on a puzzle, think you could help?”

“I’ll certainly do what I can.”

“Nine letters, seasonal holiday berry. Any ideas?” They stop in front of the doors, Combeferre’s mouth pursed as he almost visibly counts out words in his head.

“Mistletoe?” he guesses, finally looking back down to where Éponine is already pointing above the doorway. His expression shifts to one of confusion as he follows her gesture to the red berries she’d shittily duct taped up before heading to the university. “Éponine, that’s holly.”

She blinks at him.

“Oh. _Oh,”_ he repeats, looking dumbstruck. “And this is—”

“Consent loophole,” she affirms, doing everything in her power to keep her breathing more or less steady. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. No hard feelings either way.”

They stare at one another for a long minute, and Éponine’s already debating the merits of cutting and running when Combeferre finally speaks: “Éponine, I would like to try dating.” Running a hand over his head, he sighs. “I know both of us are busy, and I might not always be able to make very much time for you, but I’d like to. I’d like to keep doing this and seeing each other outside of meetings, and I. And I like you.”

It’s the most crushingly awkward thing she’s ever seen, and she adores every second of it. “Well, I like you too. And uh, yeah, I will be busy with my own shit, but like. You already know that, so if you are okay with that, then yeah, let’s go for it.” God, that was bad. That was so cringey and bad, but Combeferre is smiling at her in this ridiculous way that makes her want to smile back anyway, and before she knows what’s happening her hand is in his and he’s leaning down to press a kiss against her lips.

Even after he pulls back, the ghost of warmth remains. Éponine always thought it was fucking stupid in movies when people reached up to touch their mouth after a kiss, but here she is, tamping down the urge to do that very thing, somehow verify that it is real and actually happening.

“You fucking nerd,” she laughs, shoving him lightly. 

“Well, yes, but?”

“‘Lancelot’? That was your big move?”

His attention turns to the street as Combeferre clears his throat. “Wasn’t really a ‘move’ so much as a ‘point of clarity.’ I was fully prepared to wait the whole thing out in silence.”

This is somehow even better than the asking-out itself. He needs to stop being so flustered before one of them hurts themself. “Well, I’d better be going, then. Joyous Kwanzaa, or whatever,” she waves, spinning on the ball of her foot and beginning to walk away. Unfortunately, she also attempts to put her hands back in her pockets, which is a mistake she pays for almost immediately. _“Ai,_ fuck.”

“Something the matter?”

Literally two steps. “The fucking—” She shakes and flexes her hand. _“—holly.”_

Blinking, he looks between her and the holly. “You stowed it in your pocket?”

“I _stowed it_ in a plastic bag.”

The corners of his mouth are already tipping upward. “And how did that—”

“Not very fucking well, that’s how.” _Shit,_ these things hurt. 

“Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from getting home to your plans for tonight,” Combeferre starts, somehow giving off the impression that he knows damned well that her sole plans for the night are watching Love Island over leftovers and going to sleep, “but if you’re interested, you could come up and celebrate the first day of Kwanzaa with me. I have some tweezers, we could take care of the needles first.”

An eyebrow raises at him. “Would that be okay? I’m not exactly the target audience.”

He shrugs. “Enjolras celebrated last year with us, I think you’ll be fine.”

“Then…yeah. Yeah, I think I’d like that.”


	9. Epilogue

“Oh wow, you guys really weren’t kidding, that is a lot,” Marius exclaims when he finally answers the Goddamned door. “Can I do anything to help, or—”

“Thanks,” Éponine says, shoving the oversized box into a slightly unprepared Pontmercy’s hands. “We’ve got three more boxes o’ shit back in the van, and I’m pretty sure at least one of them is just your and Courfeyrac’s crap.”

“Hey, my ceramic pot!” Courfeyrac cheers as Grantaire drops his box to the foyer floor of the joint Courfeyrac-Pontmercy residence with less grace than a box containing, evidently, a ceramic pot probably should be. “I’ve been missing this for—”

“Months?” Grantaire guesses, grimacing as he arches his back in a stretch. 

The New Year’s Eve party was meant to start half an hour ago, but Bahorel had had a wardrobe malfunction shortly before he was meant to pick them up, leaving them to borrow his SUV without him. Last they checked he was due to arrive with Jehan, but given that eir clown car is nowhere to be seen Éponine doesn’t count on seeing either of them any time soon.

“Who all’s here?” she asks, interrupting a ramble of potentially colossal magnitude.

“Oh, uh.” Marius’s lithe frame sways worryingly as he begins to lower her box to a mostly-free table that can probably hold the package’s contents without tipping. “Joly and them came with Cosette, and Enjolras and Combeferre got here early to help us set up.”

A text had arrived earlier in the day to indicate as much, but the knowledge that Combeferre is already here still sends an odd thrill through her. It occurs to her belatedly that she probably should have responded, but he got a read notification: Combeferre knows she saw it.

“I thought I heard Grantaire’s voice!” Cosette beams, appearing suddenly from the hallway. Her arms open to wrap Grantaire in a hug before she turns to face Éponine. “Did you guys make it okay?”

“Yeah, but we’ve still got some stuff, so—”

“Need any help?” offers Combeferre, ducking under and narrowly avoiding the lip of the entryway into the foyer. 

“Don’t you have a party to be at?”

“You were literally just bitching about needing help, let your boyfriend carry something,” Grantaire heckles. “Besides, there’s two of us and three boxes: it’ll save us a trip.”

She knows Grantaire is only calling Combeferre her boyfriend to get under her skin, but it’s working, so she concedes before it can escalate any further. The heaviest of the remaining boxes should be penance enough. 

“Fine. Grab your coat, it’s chilly.”

At five to midnight the majority of the boxes’ contents have been claimed (the collars, thankfully, disappeared while Éponine was otherwise preoccupied). Nothing has been broken yet, but several questionable new games have been introduced as well as two dubiously outfitted karaoke numbers.

She’d been worried that things between them would change once she and Combeferre began dating, but by and large everything has remained exactly the same. Even here tonight, they’ve mostly stayed with their own people, only converging at the punch bowl and once when Grantaire had a point he was trying to prove. Their schedules will take slightly more effort to work around when courses start up again, and they’ve had a preliminary acknowledgement of this, but in the meantime it’s…not bad. 

“Thirty seconds!” echoes Joly’s voice through the house, accompanied by a loud clanging of what is probably silver against crystal or something else equally breakable and not intended to be smashed against that way.

The tv switches channels from whatever mindless crap had been on before to the New Year Countdown as everyone scrambles to refill their drinks and arrange themselves haphazardly around the screen. Most of them have already begun their frenzied countdown, and Courfeyrac is standing up beside the tv with a bottle of champagne and a deathwish. 

Across the room Éponine meets Combeferre’s eye and approaches him, managing to find his side just in time for the new year to strike and going up on tiptoes to meet his lips.

“I thought you didn’t believe in ‘all that New Year bullshit,” he quotes when they part, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t, but y’know,” she shrugs with a grin, “tradition’s tradition.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel and Jehan showed up at 12.30. They got lost ~~and high~~.

**Author's Note:**

> It is very important to me that you know that "Enjolras" only appears five times in this entire fic, and all five times are other people saying it.
> 
> Thoughts? Feelings? Hopes? Dreams? Aspirations? Please tell me below or reach out at my [tumblr](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)! :D


End file.
